


Earnestly Yours

by missblackwood



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Edwardian AU, Historical AU, Masquerade Ball, Secret Identities, Tea Party
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-17
Updated: 2017-08-24
Packaged: 2018-11-15 09:15:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 25,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11227914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missblackwood/pseuds/missblackwood
Summary: In the early 20th century, the fight for women’s rights is at the forefront of the political and social status quo and Miss Jemma Simmons is a young woman wanting to make a difference. In the way to find herself she entangles herself in a series of events which will challenge and change her. In the meantime she’ll cross paths with a mysterious Scotsman who will reveal himself to be more than what she first thought.A Fitzsimmons Non-Scientist Edwardian AU.





	1. Three and Twenty

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first attempt at a multi-chapter story and even though English isn't my mothertongue, I tried my best.  
> I want to thank @AGL03 for her support and for being my content beta. I also want to thank @recoveringrabbit for inspiring me through her historical AUs.
> 
> Feedback and comments are welcomed!

The Covent Garden Opera in May marked the beginning of the London Season, and for many young girls this was their main opportunity to find suitors and being whisked away to a new home with a husband and eventually have children. With the week-long regatta at Isle of Wight in August, the Season would have its dusk.

However, Miss Jemma Simmons was among those who were not particularly looking forward to the Season. She was not usually given to outbursts of anger, but sometimes she could not help but making some a sarcastic quip about “families parading their daughters and sons as if they were mannequins in a shop or cattle in a fair to be sold”. This would usually earn her a very stern look from her family. If it happened at home and she decided to just lock herself up in her room while her mother spoke loudly “Jemma Anne Simmons, come back here immediately! I did not raise you with such manners!”

In an age where marriage was still such a crucial part of women’s lives, Jemma’s thoughts usually veered more towards knowledge and the idea of emancipation. The problem is that this did not go well with her mother’s idea of seeing her daughter finally married like everyone of their station did.

Now at three and twenty, Miss Simmons was certainly more knowledgable and less naïve than she was five years ago, when she was first introduced to the Season. A few times her mother or her aunt introduced to elligible suitors, but even if she have a few interesting conversations or dances with some of them, she did not feel much more than that. Although it seemed that for some of those men a conversation or a dance were clear signals to keep pursuing a woman as if she owed them something. Just because a woman had a pleasant conversation with a man, it did not mean that she was eternally bounded to him.

Now she was already acquainted with most tricks and ways of this world she lived in, which allowed her to develop a certain intuition and refine her witty sense of humour, a much needed quality to endure the same play every year; the display of young ladies and gentlemen and the more subtle or more direct attempts at match-making through the language of flowers or fans, promised dances or stilted conversations.

In the case of women, ladies should be educated, but not _too much_ as it could be “detrimental” to their future. A woman’s sphere should be her home and she should take care of it as if it were a precious pearl. The outer world was not the woman’s business because a woman was superior to that dirty and dangerous world where men existed and they should remain above subjects like politics or voting rights.

However, a new world order seemed to be becoming stronger, and already being put to the test with more women being aware of their situation in life, questioning their purpose and their roles in society. Marches, demonstrations, rallies... Jemma, intelligent and curious, was someone who worried her mother.

To say the truth, Jemma Simmons had had an inquisitive and analytical mind since a young age. One could call her precocious, since an early age trying to read the books she could get her hands on or the books she was given by her tutors.

When Miss Simmons turned eighteen, she had made her debut at a ball, or, in other words, entered the “marriage market” as she cleverly put it. Her family, especially her mother, had attempted countless times to introduce her to young men (or some a little older) from “good and virtuous families”. Jemma did try at first to be polite and make pleasant conversation, but the more events she was invited to and attended, the more disappointed she felt and gradually lost her naïvety. Now Jemma felt the the need to put on her “Miss Simmons” performance. The truth is that good company is not easy to be found. Clever, witty, well-informed people — Just like Mr. Elliot told dear Anne in Austen’s _Persuasion_ — _that_ is the _best_ kind of company.

Though not averse to balls and dinner parties and enjoying the occasional dance, sometimes she would rather stay with a smaller group of people, fulfilling her need for lively and thought-provoking conversations. Sadly her desire of attending university had not been satisfied, although she had tutors at home feeding her need for knowledge on many areas and when necessary she was autonomously self-sufficient. Jemma learned needlework, spoke very good French and played the piano wonderfully, but she also pursued other subjects such as History, Literature and Politics.

Jemma’s mind thrived whenever she found people with whom it was worth having intellectually stimulating conversations, but not all kinds of gatherings were ideal for such things. As the afternoon or evening went by, Jemma started to wish that people came with tags attached to them so one would know immediately which people we should avoid and those we should hold on to dearly. Why could not she find more people to discuss the compelling articles or caricatures published in _The Shield_ , for instance? But alas, that was not her reality. “Not yet,” she believed. Moreover, given the somewhat dangerous yet honest content in it, she imagined that most authors (if not all) wrote under a _nom de plume_.

Jemma thought that if one day she were to marry, it would have to be with someone who could also be a friend to her, a good person, and preferably fond of engaging conversations, someone she could actually talk to. Was that asking too much when you would supposedly spend the rest of your life with said person? Life had showed her many examples of unhappy and miserable marriages.

She was aware that many women did not marry and she would prefer to focus her attention in learning and acquiring more knowledge and perhaps making some money by writing or teaching. Even if it wasn’t a lot, the prospect of earning money through her writing and/or teaching filled her heart with pride. To be honest, Jemma Simmons would rather be alone than in bad company. Her family’s attempts at finding a match for Jemma had all come to nothing.

 

_You cannot always be like this, Jemma._

_One day you will have to choose or worse, not having any suitor._

_Your idealism won’t feed you when you’re hungry._

_When you are hungry and pennyless your ideals and feelings will fade away._

_You say you are more of a realist than what it seems, but I have yet to see that._

Aunt Charlotte feared that she would become an old maid. Jemma could not help but chuckle at her aunt’s words.

“Be careful!” aunt Charlotte continued, “Even your cousin Lancelot has married! Disappointing me by a sudden wedding with an American woman, but at least she’s a rich heiress, which will make her presence somewhat more tolerable. They are arriving soon, I believe.”

“Aunt, you speak as if I should be daunted by the prospect of becoming an old maid,” laughed Jemma, “but I am not. I could live in a small bric-a-brac-filled cottage, writing and with a couple of cats to keep me company. And from the little I know about my new cousin has made me more curious to meet her. Marrying “a blonde Amazon!,” according to my cousin’s letter.

“You should not laugh at aunt Charlotte’s words, Jemma,” said Mrs. Simmons.

“Do not worry, Emily, by now I am used to them. I am waiting for the day she will say she is a suffragist. The situation is growing more and more dangerous; all those organisations, the marches, the demonstrations! Lord knows what will happen next!”

“And yet from what I have heard and read, those women still marched because they believed it was the right thing to do even if it gets them arrested” added Jemma.

After a couple of tense seconds Mrs. Simmons took the conversation back to the previous theme.

“Returning to the previous subject, Jemma, you cannot keep refusing marriage proposals, one day you will have to marry even if it is not Mr. Milton or Sir Randolph or now Mr. Daniels. I wonder for how long this behaviour of yours will continue. You cannot keep rejecting and/or ignoring every suitor. Unless you wish to become an old maid.

“But Miss Potter has not married, and she has profited from her published books,” remembered Jemma.

“That might be true, dear, but that might merely be an exception to the rule. Not all women can afford to live such a life. You certainly are aware of our bourgeois privilege and duty. Everything we have struggled to attain including respect and our status.”

“I suppose she forgot how her side of the family had cotton mills not too long ago,” thought Jemma.

Jemma liked to entertain the thought that perhaps she could follow the example of Miss Beatrix Potter; if she could earn money through writing why could not Miss Jemma Simmons do the same? It did not matter to her that people of her station might find such activity offensive or embarrassing; on the contrary, it was something to be admired, she thought. Jemma believed that she could use her words to communicate, to do something worthwhile. Because words matter.  


	2. The Arrival

In the days that followed the announcement of the return of Master Lancelot and his bride, the staff of the Hunter Residence was very busy preparing their reception. Previously an eligible bachelor, many thought that the bohemian Lancelot (or Lance, as he preferred to be called) Hunter would never marry at all, but Miss Barbara Morse, now the future Lady Hunter, had turned his plans upside down. So the news of his brief engagement followed by a marriage to this American woman came as a complete surprise to his mother, Lady Charlotte and father, Lord Henry.

After their initial shock, they hoped that at least this impulsive behaviour of their son would bring something good for the Hunter family, one of the many English families in dire straits and arranging all kinds of marriage to American heiresses whose money would help support a way of life that was already beginning to crack under the surface. This money was a way of Americans decorating their social status with British titles. When Lance first saw and met Miss Morse, he did not know at first about her heiress status but of course he would never tell his parents that. Barbara also has two more sisters so the possibility of meeting one of them in the future in England was not far-fetched.

After crossing the Atlantic for over a week and landing in Southampton, there was still a 75 mile carriage trip to London to endure before they finally reached the Hunter Residence. The bright skies had already left the stage for the streetlights to shine.

“Ah, John, it is nice to see you again,” said Lance.

“The pleasure is mine, sir. I am glad to see you well,” replied the butler.

“Father, Mother, I am happy to see you again. May I present to you my wife, Mrs. Barbara Hunter,” a blonde-haired and blue-eyed tall woman smiled at them.

“I am glad to make your acquaintance. I hope we will get along well,” said the smiling daughter-in-law to Lord and Lady Hunter as she took a small bow.

“Well, I am certain that the trip was somewhat tiring, so Lord Hunter and I will give you some time to rest in your rooms. Dinner will be served at 7:30 pm.”

After the the couple went up stairs, Lady Charlotte said to her husband, ”let us see how she behaves in the next few days.”

“Indeed,” Lord Henry agreed.

 

***

 

Jemma only met the Hunters and her new cousin-in-law the following day at a tea party scheduled for 5 o’clock, which Jemma and her mother Emily and father Frederick were supposed to attend.

“Good afternoon, Mr, Mrs, and Miss Simmons, the family is in the garden waiting for your arrival,” said the butler.

“Thank you,” the Simmons family replied.

There was a long corridor which lead them to a very elegant garden where tea, scones, biscuits and other kinds of delicious baked goods waiting for everyone.

While the older couples were greeting each other, Jemma went to Lance right away.

“Lance! You are back!”

“As you can see, little cousin, and this time I brought a little gift with me,” reaching for his wife’s hand with his.

”By little gift I believe he means “my blonde amazon,” isn’t it, Lancelot?,” teased Barbara, as she put both hands on Lance’s right shoulder.

“I have asked you not to call me that.”

“And that,” emphasising what she was saying by pointing at him with her finger, “is exactly why I call you that,” and now both women chuckled while Lance pouted, staying in the same spot, but with a mischievous glint in his eye.

“Let us take a walk by the garden. You probably already know who I am, but I will introduce myself nonetheless: I’m Barbara, your new cousin, though people closer to me call me Bobbi, a childhood nickname. And you must be the intelligent and talented cousin Jemma, am I right?”

“Yes, I mean, I hope so, not that it would be very difficult to guess, would it? Given that he only has one cousin?,” Jemma chuckled. “I am looking forward to find a friend in you, our families are not very large.”

“I come from a family with three girls including me. Maybe all of us will end up here in England. Our fortunes seem to make us very attractive, you know,“ cousin Barbara chortled while Jemma gave a small smile.

“I am a very down-to-earth person, I am merely glad that Lance and I were lucky enough to actually have fallen in love with each other, but most marriages are not like that.”

“I agree with you. Most marriages are not based on love. But I will also say that sometimes love can blossom within a marriage. My mother thinks I am a romantic because I have already rejected suitors and she says that I must be waiting for Prince Charming, but that is not the truth. I am a realist in the sense that if I am going to spend decades living with the same person, it should be someone I have some compatibility with, there should be some kind of friendship and respect for each other. Is that too much to ask?

“No Jemma, I do not think it is. But we live in a world where —“

“Wait, Barbara, I think someone is calling us. Lance is waving to get our attention.”

“Oh yes, it does look like he is telling us to come back. And Jemma, please, you can call me Bobbi,” emphasised Barbara.

Jemma answered with a smile, “very well, Bobbi.”

 

***

 

It is nice to sit in the shade, to feel a breeze caressing your face, while drinking some good old tea and eating high-quality baked goods.

Lord Hunter was reading the newspaper, nodding and shaking his head as he read it. His brow furrowed more and more as he was reading a particular article.

“What is the matter, Henry? Another threat of war?” asked Lady Charlotte.

Lord Henry closed and put down on the table an edition of _The Gatekeeper_ (sponsored by Gideon Malick) before speaking: “While I think we’ve been farther away of one,” briefly stopping to take a sip of brandy, “today we talk about another kind of war, one could say. Surely my niece Jemma must know more about it.

“What should I know about?“ asked a distracted Jemma previously having a conversation with Bobbi.

“About what those women are doing to get the vote. Do you think it is right what some of them have been doing? Organising demonstrations, breaking windows and even making mail boxes explode in the middle of the street?

“Not that I condone violence because I do not, but sometimes it seems that the only way women can be heard is through strong messages,” something deep in her wanting to rile up her uncle.

Mrs. Simmons threw her daughter a look that meant to keep quiet and Lady Charlotte’s expression had changed to a stiff upper lip as she narrowed her eyes. Mr. Simmons expression was inescrutable at the moment.

“Has it not crossed your mind that these women might diminish the dignity of your sex by being diagnosed as insane and locked up?,” spoke Lord Henry more firmly, with the self-confidence of a being a privileged man.

As the conversation continued, Jemma found it difficult not to express her thoughts more clearly; that is because “our society has always been ruled by men and ready to erase the role of women. Women have been put in asylums simply for reading books! Children working like adults and some living in the streets and only God knows in what horrible conditions. But one day one gets exhausted of living the same kind of life over and over again and would rather attempt to do something different even if the result might not be the desired one.”

“You seem to be well informed, Jemma,” said her uncle with a touch of sarcasm. Jemma clenched her fists.

“Yes and I like to be well-informed, and education is one of the keys for women and children to stop living like slaves under conditions I am fortunate enough to have never endured myself. You might think that way but I cannot agree with it. We are all human beings and we deserve to be treated with respect and dignity. Sometimes I think men must be afraid of women having the right to vote, because as long as men keep women mostly ignorant, we are easier to control and less likely to be treated fairly and respectfully. An educated woman is a conceited man’s worst nightmare. I am very sorry, uncle, but I cannot condone your opinion,” Jemma stood up from her chair, leaving the table without finishing the scone she had been eating. Lance was smirking, highlighting the difficult relationship he had with his father.

Jemma needed to catch some fresh air, the previous conversation leaving her exhausted and angry. How could he not see? Of course, his life was what it was and he did not have the time to care about those below himself. She was also aware that she was very lucky in having certain privileges. Lost in her thoughts, Jemma did not hear the sounds of someone approaching her and she was startled when Bobbi began to speak.

“Cousin Jemma—“

“Ah! I’m sorry, you’ve startled me.

“i apologise, it was not my intention.”

After a few seconds of both women walking in silence, Bobbi spoke, “Lance had already told me about you, but now I think I like you even more,”

“Well, Barbara, ” started Jemma —

“Oh please, I already told you, you can call me Bobbi,“

“Okay, so... Bobbi,” Jemma smiled slightly, “I want to thank you for your compliment, it is very pleasant when one has someone on their side.”

“No need to thank me, in America we are fighting for the same cause so I understand you,”

“Just like overseas you must have newspapers and magazine defending our cause, here we also have them. I like especially _The Shield_. Thought-provoking articles, news that matter. Some say that the main investor, the machine behind it, is an American millionaire.

“Oh, an American millionaire? Hum... I wonder if... Could it be Mr. Philip Coulson? He’s always involved in several businesses from what we know and he had left New York for Europe not too long before Lance and I did.”

“That’s an interesting theory. Who knows? The names of the writers must be ficticious for their own protection. The content is extremely relevant with articles that deal with subjects like women’s emancipation, the right to vote, children’s rights, minorities, among others. All authors have men’s names, but I am almost sure that at least some of them must be women. I wonder if our paths have ever crossed each other without knowing.”

“Sounds interesting. Perhaps you might lend me the most recent edition so I can look at it?”

“Of course! And they always have this cartoon segment based on current events and I always look forward to seeing those. They can be very caustic but also very honest and even touching at times. An image saying a thousand words. The last edition included a man’s foot stamping on people while several more were climbling and clinging on to him as if they were bees to the point where you could no longer see the man. Author signed as James Knight. It still makes me wonder if the artist is male or female.”

“A mystery, I suppose.”

“Yes.”

Not too long after, the Simmons family left the Hunter residence with the promise of more meetings, including a walk with Jemma and Bobbi in a nearby park the next morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the feedback I've had so far! I hope you guys will like the rest that is yet to come. And do not fret over Fitz's absence so far. He will appear :)
> 
> A mixtape for the story is also in the works and hopefully it will be published soon.


	3. A Walk

The Hunters had business to be taken care of, which postponed Jemma and Bobbi’s morning walk to the afternoon. There was no problem at all as it allowed Jemma to make a visit to her favourite bookshop — Cygnus Books — early in the morning, a lovely place with stained glass windows and a skylight. She ended up leaving it with a new copy of _North and South_ by Elizabeth Gaskell (her old one was falling apart from so much use) and a more recent novel by E.M. Forster, _A Room With a View_ , a novel with a young woman as the main character living in the beginning of the new century who travels to Italy and episodes of growth and self-discovery.

She was taking a look at her copy of _A Room With a View_ while walking and distractedly started to cross the street a little after a curve — she did not hear much noise so she assumed there was no problem — before hearing a horn coming from a bicycle with a young man wearing a newsie cap who said “Be more careful, miss!” with some kind of Scottish accent to his voice. Jemma was more careful afterwards, delaying the satisfaction of her curiosity until she got home.

***

The bell of the Simmons House sounded at four o’clock. As the butler opened the door, it revealed Mrs. Hunter, ready for a walk with Miss Simmons and to talk about the idea that her husband and she had had last night. She could not wait to tell her new cousin about it but she was told to wait a little while in the hall as Miss Simmons was getting ready to meet her. A few minutes had passed when Jemma descended the stairs wearing a her [dark blue walking suit](http://omgthatdress.tumblr.com/post/139565427519/walking-suit-1905-1910-the-metropolitan-museum-of) with black and white trimmings, while Barbara was wearing a [red one](http://fripperiesandfobs.tumblr.com/post/112890692539/day-dress-ca-1900-from-the-galleria-del-costume) with golden bead trimmings with a matching hat.

“Good afternoon, Jemma.”

“Good afternoon to you too, Bobbi. I am sorry to have kept you waiting.”

“It was not a problem at all.”

Both ladies then left the house together, enjoying whatever views the city had for them and also to know each other a little better.

“So Bobbi, what happened that made you marry my cousin? What kind of spell did you put on him?”, Jemma jokingly asked her. “Because he has always been a flirt and never an advocate for marriage.”

“Well, a lady never reveals her secrets,” Bobbi teased, “but all began with a common friend introducing us to each other in a ball in New York and in five minutes we were already verbally sparring. There was that thrill of being in a roller coaster... not quite sure about what will happen but you still want to be there. And afterwards we learned about our social status, of course, convenient for my parents and my money, and convenient for his family,” finished Bobbi sarcastically.

Jemma and Bobbi stopped near a lovely garden, observing the blossoming colourful flowers, and Jemma continues, “I am not sure if have ever truly felt that way, to be quite honest. I have had... or more like my family tried to match me with some suitors but I ended up rejecting them all in a way or another.

“You are a romantic then.”

“Not exactly. I know that all heart and no brain is a dangerous combination and rarely works in our society. There has to be a degree of realism. How can I make such a decision in a frivolous way when it involves spending the rest of my life with such person?”

“Touché, cousin, touché,” Briefly changing the subject, Bobbi suggests that it was probably time they went to a tea room so they could get some refreshments and pastries. Jemma said it was an excellent idea.

“And then I can tell you why Hunter and I were busy this morning. One word: masquerade.”

“Oh no, you are teasing me again!,” Jemma playfully slapped Bobbi’s shoulder, “You have to tell me now.”

“I will, after we get our tea and cookies and biscuits...”

After they had begun to eat, Jemma mentioned again the subject of _that_ mysterious masquerade.

“Okay, okay, cousin! Lance and I had an excellent idea to compensate your aunt’s dismay of not having a ceremony here in England...,” she took a sip of her tea, delaying the reply.

Jemma was on tenterhooks to match Bobbi’s suspenseful, gleeful tone.

“What about a masquerade ball?,” suggested Bobbi.

“Oh!”

“It would be a party to celebrate the beginning of our marriage and also a chance for everyone to enjoy a party in a different context.”

“And where you planning to organise this masquerade ball? The Hunter Residence?”

_I will not change my mind. This is my decision—_

Bobbi was trying to reply to her question, something involving a hotel but Jemma couldn’t quite catch her entire answer because of a parallel conversation on a nearby table and both Jemma and Bobbi could not help but pay attention to the conversation happening nearby between a woman in a green skirt and a white high lace blouse with a cameo at her neck and a well dressed middle aged man with her—

_“No, uncle, I want to be painted by him,” the young woman demanded._

_“But Ophelia, there are so many excellent painters—,“ her uncle with a certain Scottish brogue replied._

_“No, he is the painter I want to make a portrait of me. I’m quite sure of it. After seeing what I saw in the exhibition of his paintings, his talent, his style, I want Mr. Fitz and no one else,” demanded Ophelia._

_“Of course, dear niece, we will see what can be done to make that happen.”_

_“As soon as possible.”_

After that, their voices returned to their normal tones and they heard little else of their conversation.

“Well, now even _I_ am curious about this Mr. Fitz,” chuckled Bobbi.

“I might have heard the name somewhere but personally I have never seen any of his paintings,” said Jemma. “But I do know that Ophelia Radcliffe has a fortune and is rumoured to have a very headstrong temper.

“Funny that her uncle has a Scottish accent yet she does not.

“She spent some time in the United States... and I suppose that is why sometimes her accent sounds a somewhat different.”

“So”, Bobbi, “back to our own conversation, I was trying to tell you that we are thinking about a hotel to host the masquerade ball. At the Triskelion Hotel, to be more specific. It would be more pratical and Lance was thinking of inviting our servants too—

“Oh, what was Aunt Charlotte’s reaction?”

“You can imagine. When Lance told her, she almost fainted.”

“So... a masquerade ball? Sounds intriguing and exciting, with a touch of mystery.”

“Indeed cousin. That is exactly what we are aiming at,” concluded Bobbi.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ooh, a masquerade ball approaches!
> 
> Thank you for your support and as you already know, feedback is welcome :)


	4. The Masquerade Ball

The following weeks were rather busy and hectic as expected. Mr. Hunter had a carefree, laid-back temper, to the point of being able to invite pretty much everyone to his party if not stopped by his wife. By using the luxury Triskelion Hotel as the place to host such a ball, there would be a few advantages, such as electric lighting and hot and cold running water in every room, one of the first hotels to do so. The new Mrs. Hunter put her organisation skills to the test in order that her masquerade ball was a remarkable event and everything would have to be perfect (or as least looking like it). With the help of Miss Simmons, many invitations were sent, and a fairly large number of people were expected to attend the ball.

Obviously the Hunter and the Simmons families would be there, just like several other families of their acquaintance. Scheduled to attend the ball was also Mr. Coulson, an American millionaire with an interest in several businesses and investments who was in town and with the company of his quick-witted godchild Miss Daisy Johnson, and her stern yet trustworthy governess Mrs. Melinda May. Bobbi also introduced the Simmons family to an old friend of hers, Alphonso Mackenzie, a typographer, who had already been living in England for some time. Jemma was slightly worried about the confirmation that Ophelia Radcliffe and her uncle Holden Radcliffe would attend the event given the scene both Bobbi and Jemma had witnessed a few weeks ago in Miss Carter’s tea room.

When the night of the masquerade arrived, guests had to go through the hall and then the cloak rooms where the guests’ belongings would be kept until the end of the ball. Slowly the ball room became filled with the sartorial elegance of both men and women, sporting the latest fashion trends in their attires and hairdos, trying to find their acquaintances and strike conversations. And of course, the masks could not be forgotten; some travelled from home already prepared for an alluring party but at the hall of the hotel, several dazzling masks of different types were waiting to be picked up. Lance already looked pleased as punch and the ball had barely begun. Bobbi was somewhat more cautious yet hopeful.

This masquerade was not a traditional dinner party, having a series of tables surrounding the grand room (except for the windows which would let people out to take a breath of fresh air or simply to admire the night sky) where dishes would be served according to the scheduled hours. So in the beginning of the night there would be several hors d’oeuvres and light entrées, afterwards small portions of fish and meat dishes and even later a variety of delicious desserts to choose from. To drink you could choose from sparking water to beverages such as liquors, wine and coffee. Later in the evening tea and supper would also be served.

In the centre of the great ball room, those who wanted to dance were free to do so as the orchestra played a variety of waltzes, polkas, quadrilles, friendly country dances, among other dances of the time.

Electricity was definitely welcomed, breathing life and cheerfulness into the room, though some older ladies complained about this novelty, possibly afraid it would heighten the marks of their age in their bodies. The illumination of the ball room was essential and one can only wonder how many candles would have been needed to get the same effect that this new invention provided. The room had so many guests that one would almost believe that Lance Hunter had invited the entire city for this ball!

Though Jemma enjoyed dancing, she did not have the opportunity to do so very often; she danced once with her cousin Lance and another time with a family acquaintance, Captain Antoine Triplett. Miss Johnson danced with the Captain twice. Mr. Milton, an old suitor of Jemma’s, tried to engage her for the dance before supper time, but she had to decline his invitation due to fatigue. Mr. Milton’s time was with Jemma was cut short when Miss Johnson joined Miss Simmons.

“Miss Simmons, how lovely to see you again,” and then lowering her tone of voice, ”I believe you have disappointed that young gentleman by declining his invitation to dance!” said Miss Johnson with a smirk on her face, having both been introduced to each other earlier in the evening.

“Yes, but you see, my feet are aching and I fear my dancing time is over for this ball. But you danced twice with Captain Triplett! You make a lovely pair.”

“Oooh, Miss Simmons, your poor feet!,” said Miss Johnson in the same sardonic tone she had adopted since she first approached Jemma. “The Captain is a handsome man and very easy to have a conversation with. His heart seems to be in the right place.”

“Please call me Jemma.”

“Only if you address me as Daisy.”

“Very well. Daisy, how are you finding your time in England so far?”

“Overall it has been pleasant and the dancing tonight has been wonderful so far. My godfather has been very interested in my education — Mrs. May can be a very stern and serious lady but she has been a good governess and genuinely cares about me — but I believe my favourite moment so far has been when your Mr. Milton tripped and almost fell into the punch bowl!,” laughed Daisy.

“ _My_ Mr. Milton? Oh dear, he is not mine or anything similar. They tried to match me with him, that is true, but it did not work out. We could barely have a conversation with him always agreeing with me on everything! It was almost as if he had no personality of his own,” said a tired Jemma.

Jemma and Daisy continued their conversation, talking about the events of the ball and the latter’s stay in England with Mr. Coulson and Mrs. May, later joined by Mr. and Mrs. Hunter and Captain Triplett.

The unusually balmy night invited Jemma to leave the party for a few minutes and visit the verandah. She would have the chance to spend some time alone with her thoughts and the starry sky that she watched from far, far away. As happy as she was for his cousin and his new American wife, the outdoors and the pleasant, clear moonlight were too inviting for her to refuse them. She rested her elbows on the marble of the parapet, gazing at the sky, trying to see the stars and the constellations they formed. _How small we are_ , she thought. _So tiny in this universe._ There was so much that she would never know and this filled her with frustration and awe at the same time.

Lost in her thoughts, Jemma did not notice the other figure lost in their own thoughts metres away from her, seemingly unaware that Jemma was there just as she had been until now.

Scratching his face underneath the mask, mumbling to himself like “ _these bloody itchy masks_ ” with a lilt of Scottish brogue in his voice and ready to take his mask off.

“Ahem,” interrupted Jemma.

The man kept his mask on. “Oh, I’m sorry miss, I didn’t mean to frighten you— It was just that—“

“It is quite alright—“

“I just thought I was alone,” both said simultaneously. They couldn’t help but smile at the coincidence.

“Well, I can go elsewhere though to be honest I’d rather stay here outside for the time being—,“ said the man, his voice making him seem a little nervous. It was almost as if he could see the look of doubt and surprise on her face behind her mask when he said was being pursued by someone he preferred not to see at the moment.

“It is not necessary, I do not own this place. Both of us can admire the landscape bathed by the moonlight and all the stars dotting the sky.” And then she began to recite:

_“He comes with western winds, with evening's wandering airs,_   
_With that clear dusk of heaven that brings the thickest stars._   
_Winds take a pensive tone, and stars a tender fire,_   
_And visions rise, and change, that kill me with desire.”_

“Is that, hmm....” his index finger covering the part of the mask where his lips were supposed to be, “Brontë?”

“Yes, Emily. Her poetry is admirable.”

“Are you just an admirer or are you a writer as well?,” he asked.

“I like to write though some people think I should not,” Jemma replied.

“I would say those people matter little. If you are a writer then no one else can take that away from you.”

“Thank you. Today’s night is particularly beautiful, don’t you agree?,” Jemma was suprised at herself for talking with a stranger so easily, even more so being a man, but she felt at ease with him somehow.

“It is a beautiful night indeed, just waiting to be painted by someone who knows how to capture it,” he said.

“It looks like I think in words and you in colours,” suggested Jemma.

“Leonardo da Vinci once said that “painting is poetry that is seen rather than felt, and poetry is painting that is felt rather than seen,”” quoted this mysterious masked man. “Maybe both can be complementary.”

“Perhaps. And to think that we are looking at the past, because our present will only be seen by those who will come many years after us.”

“Are you interested in astronomy?,” he asked.

“Somewhat. My father is an astronomy lover, and he shared his love of astronomy with me. Even my name—,” but then Jemma suddenly stopped, remembering that she was currently standing in a verandah, having a conversation with this stranger without having been properly introduced to. At least she had to protect her identity.

“I don’t know a lot about astronomy, but I think that everyone can appreciate this beauty, don’t you think?,” he asked, looking at her while she admired the stars.

“It makes me think of how small we all are, doesn’t it? And everything is connected. Once there was nothing and now everything that there is comes from that nothing. And one day we will disappear and become part of that everything.”

“My mum always said that you shouldn’t be afraid of death because it’s just the way life was before you were born,” the Scotish lilt in his voice becoming more noticeable as he spoke more freely, she noticed.

“But what kind of mark do we leave after we are gone?,” Jemma kept going. “Kings and queens will be remembered, but what about the lives history books tell us nothing about? Our lives? All those lives that won’t have anyone to tell them.”

A few seconds of silence followed.

“Maybe they can be remembered in these moments when we think and talk about them. A collective memory,” said the mystery man.

“Perhaps. And although we all will have to meet our end one day, ideas can remain, values can remain, thoughts can remain, and as long as someone holds on to them, we can still exist,” and suddenly some light from the inside of the building caught a pair of blue eyes looking at her hazel ones. _No clichés_ , she told herself, as she took in his look of genuine interest in what she said. Some blue eyes might look ice cold, but in these she only found warmth.

“Uh, I have realised that we haven’t even been introduced to each other properly. We don’t even know each other’s names,” he suddenly remembered.

“Oh, perhaps...— began Jemma.

“Perhaps our names should remain unknown. Even if this was probably one of the most thrilling conversations I’ve ever had. And if I didn’t have a mask I probably wouldn’t be bold enough to say it.

“Give a man a mask and he’ll tell you the truth.”

“Oscar Wilde,” he added.

She smiled.

“Perhaps I should go inside because my family might be looking for me,” Jemma said, wanting to spend the rest of the night talking to this man.

“I hope this conversation was as compelling to you as it was for me”, he said, wanting to spend the rest of the night talking to this woman.

“It was,” her mask allowing him to see her smile. “Good night.”

He picked up her gloved left hand, his lips lightly kissing it, and then he looked at her and said, “Good night,” letting her go.

After this meeting everything seemed dull for Jemma for the rest of the party, her mind still wrapped up in what had happened.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading this story and as you know, feedback is always welcome :)
> 
> Who noticed Fitz's very first appearance in the previous chapter? :) Also if you have noticed the number of chapters going up from 12 to 13... Chapter 13 will be an epilogue.


	5. Thoughts and Greetings

It was early morning after the masquerade ball and she could not sleep anymore after what had happened previous night. She was in her blue dressing gown looking out of the window, watching the city and its inhabitants slowly beginning to come back to life after a night of rest, but her mind was still mulling over the ball’s events. It was impossible for her not to think of _her_ mystery man with gentle blue eyes. When he suggested the idea of keeping their names to themselves she briefly thought he was rejecting her somehow but afterwards she realised that he was actually protecting her in a society often too harsh towards women. _But who was he?_ , she asked herself. He could also be hiding himself out of shyness, perhaps. Or was he already engaged and still trying to flirt in his own way with other women. But her intuition said such scheme was unlikely and her analytical mind agreed with it. It was frustrating though that she did not know who was that mystery man, right when she had such an interesting conversation with him. Then something in her inspired her to play one of the Chopin’s Études.           

***

He was thankful for the circumstances that had allowed him to meet such an interesting woman, but also frustrated for the fact that uncovering their identities was dangerous so he kept to the safer road. He also knew that had he no mask put on, he would not have been able to say half the things he told her. Such thoughtfulness and intelligence in a conversation deserved a partner up to said challenge and he had tried. And her smile! _Oh_ , her smile. For several reasons he often doubted himself. “His father could not see the talent he had,” said his mother. Then came the South African war for almost three years and it took him away from them. They never knew what happened to his father. His body was never found; they never knew if he was dead or alive or if he had simply deserted.

***

A week after the masquerade ball, Jemma’s usual morning walk was joined by Mr. and Mrs. Hunter, in other words, her cousin Lance and his wife Bobbi. Lance had to take care of some business but he took the opportunity of accompaning both ladies for part of their walk.

“I feel proud to be in such delightful company,” Lance declared in his usual teasing tone, standing between both ladies and linking his arms with theirs.

“Very lucky you are indeed!” proclaimed his wife and Jemma joining in the conversation with her laugh.

They were walking down a street filled with business of various types, when suddenly familiar faces came into view—

“Oh, that’s Mr. Coulson!”

“And his goddaughter Miss Johnson and Mrs. May!”

“And a curly blond-haired man I have never seen before.”

Both groups of people walked until they met each other, exchanging the costumary greetings.

Mr Coulson then intervened, “I believe you haven’t met Mr. Fitz, a painter of great talent—”

“This is Mr. Hunter and his wife Barbara, a fellow American—”

“Indeed, Mr. Coulson, were are secret invaders," she joked, "and please, you can call me Bobbi.”

Throughout this casual meeting, Mr. Fitz was slowly becoming less comfortable, scratching the back of his neck, sometimes looking down or at something else in the street, though he bowed a little as he was introduced to his new acquaintances.

“And this is Mr. Hunter’s cousin, Miss Jemma Simmons.”

“Indeed I am, Mr. Coulson. Pleased to meet you, Mr. Fitz.”

Mr. Fitz seemed to have become paralysed, looking at the woman in front of him as if he were a statue, yet a couple of seconds later he kissed her gloved hand just like he had done to Mrs. Hunter. Then he quickly excused himself by whispering something to Mr. Coulson and then he was gone.

“Mr. Fitz did not seem to be feeling very well. Is anything the matter with him?,” asked Jemma.

“Ah, not exactly, he just remembered some business he had to attend to.”

“Does he paint portraits? Some time ago we happened to hear something somewhere,” said Bobbi, alluding to that afternoon at the Miss Carter’s tea room where Jemma and she had overheard part of the conversation between the very obstinate Ophelia Radcliffe and her uncle.

“Yes, you are correct, he is a very skilled portrait painter though he is also good at landscapes.”

“Not too long he painted a portrait of mine,” added Miss Johnson, “and you have to see it. Oh, perhaps he could paint your portraits as well!”

“I recall reading somewhere where they were calling him the new Franz Xaver Winterhalter”, said Jemma, still somewhat shaken by her meeting with Mr. Fitz, though not quite sure why.

“Oh, don’t tell him that. He doesn’t like it people constantly comparing him to _this_ or _that_ painter,” replied Miss Johnson.

“Artists and their quirks, am I right?,” Mr. Coulson said. “But Mr. Fitz’s genius should not be underestimated. Perhaps we might be able to schedule a session or two to paint your portraits?”

While Mr. Coulson suggested this, a very nervous Mr. Fitz stood inside a book shop, several metres away from them, trying to collect his wits after realising that Miss Jemma Simmons, the woman he had just been introduced to, was the _same_ woman he had talked to in the masquerade ball, the woman that had often occupied his thoughts for this past week. Her voice, her eyes, her smile. It was _her_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What a surprise for Fitz, huh? And looks like that meeting also affected Jemma for some reason...
> 
> \---
> 
> You can hear the mixtape for this story here: https://www.mixcloud.com/allinablur/earnestly-yours-soundtrack/
> 
> P.S.: Each song title also has the number of the chapter it belongs to and songs with a * are played by characters/orchestra in the story.


	6. Portraits and Books

Jemma was now in her bedroom after the Simmons family had their dinner. She found her thoughts drifting to the events of today’s morning walk and her encounter with Mr. Coulson’s party, in particular to the elusive Mr. Fitz. What was the reason of such behaviour? He looked like he couldn’t wait to leave the place. He did not say a word (whispers to Mr. Coulson aside) and he barely looked at her. Perhaps he did not like her? He did not seem so uncomfortable when greeting her cousins. She only caught a glimpse of his blue eyes, and for a fleeting moment a memory of another pair of blue eyes filled her mind. Could he be... Could he?! It was almost madness to make such a connection. There were many people with blue eyes and he was just another person in such a big city.

However, it was impossible not to think the blue-eyed stranger and their conversation. Her mystery man had a Scottish accent and because she had not heard Mr. Fitz speak, she did not know what kind of accent he could have. He could even be Welsh! The only words he had said during their brief encounter had only been to Mr. Coulson and in an imperceptible voice. She wished to unravel this mystery that had been occupying her thoughts since the masquerade ball. It was not every day you found someone with whom one could have an interesting conversation beyond themes such as the weather, the latest trends or the new scandal. How unlucky they could not have been properly introduced in the ball! And still, perhaps she wouldn’t have had the memory of that conversation in the verandah while everyone was inside enjoying the music, hearing the latest news or too busy with match-making.

Another subject that she thought about was that she needed to focus more in her writing. She had postponed it for too long. Even _her_ mystery man supported her, which only made him even more interesting. Sometimes she tried writing fiction, tales of heroines who could free themselves from the shackles of society that bounded them and find happiness in freedom and fulfillment in the opportunities they found; sometimes she wrote what could be called as essays or articles on subjects that interested her and that she thought deserved attention, such as women’s conditions in the beginning of the 20 th century, child labour or the importance of education. Perhaps one of her essays or articles could be published?

 _Oh, bravery_ , she thought. _I have to call you to help me do this. I need to do this. But little steps. First I will have to create my own nom de plume. But which one? Where would she draw inspiration from?_ Perhaps the stars? _Or maybe something more normal, but it has to be masculine._ Just like other ladies who had published under masculine or neutral names, she would find inspiration in them and create her own name. She searched for one of her pieces of writing and began to read it:

_“The worst kind of oppression is the one that makes us embrace it willingly. A poisoned gift. Women are seen by some as the “fairest sex” and therefore that they shouldn’t be involved in politics when they were superior to such kind of things. Women are seen by some as the more emotional beings and therefore they aren’t capable of being involved in politics. Women are seen by some as psychologically inferior to men and therefore they shouldn’t be involved in politics. These premises are wrong. Women are people whose talents and faculties can lead them to great deeds if only they were given more opportunities. How many examples have we had of [...]_

The article delved more into the subject, explaining why women are neither more nor less than men and that the current mentality would have to change think about the importance of equality, but she knew that things would not happen in just one day, no matter how much she might want it. At the end the article she signed as

_By ~~Jem~~ Charles Martin_

***

It was late June, and Leopold Fitz was on his way to Holden Radcliffe’s house, for another painting session so he could finish painting Radcliffe’s niece portrait. Ophelia Radcliffe was a mystery he could barely decipher. Holden Radcliffe and Fitz seemed to get along pretty well, and not merely because both shared Scottish accents. Fitz had the opportunity to admire some of the paintings decorating the house as well as the photography studio that Radcliffe had. He liked to experiment, almost a scientific curiosity and Fitz shared that interest through his work.

Ophelia was an enigma Fitz had to capture in his portrait of hers, which would be her uncle’s birthday present after her demand that Mr. Fitz had to paint her, that only Leopold Fitz could paint her. Ophelia was nothing but pleasant and gracious when Fitz was in her company, but once or twice he thought he saw frightened, timid looks in some of the house staff.

As he approached the house he saw one of the maids in the street, just leaving the house, but she was wearing her own clothes. When Fitz was fairly close to her he asked—

“Miss, please Miss, are you feeling well? Because you don’t look like it....”

“Oh, Mr. Fitz, if only I could tell you everything...”

“Miss... Excuse me, what is your name?”

“Edith, sir.”

“Miss Edith, what happened?

“Promise you won’t tell anyone?”

“Of course, Miss Edith. Please, what is the matter?”

“It’s Miss Ophelia. She fired me today only because supposedly I put a walking dress among the evening dresses and some objects were out of place after I cleaned them. I said I put everything in their right place, but Miss Ophelia said I did not and if i couldn’t do my job correctly then I was going to be dismissed.”

“I’m very sorry Miss Edith. Huh... Perhaps you could visit Mr. Coulson’s house and see if someone there can help you?...”

“Oh, thank you, Mr. Fitz. I will go there.”

“You’re welcome,” replied Fitz and Miss Edith walked away.

Mr. Fitz took a deep breath and ringed the bell. He seemed to hear music coming from inside the house.

After a little while the door opened and the butler said “Good afternoon Mr. Fitz, Miss Ophelia is just finishing her piano lesson.”

A glimpse of Ophelia Radcliffe playing the notes of a [melancholic prelude](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HiwPzHJ-Pic) by Chopin was the sight Fitz encountered and it seemed such a paradoxical situation given the story he had just heard. The prelude was perfectly played but it seemed to give her a depth of feeling he was not sure she possesssed. Fitz decided to wait until the end of the prelude before he announced his presence.

“Good afternoon, Miss Ophelia.”

“Good afternoon, Mr. Fitz. There is something about Chopin that captivates me.”

“He was indeed a great composer. His nocturnes are very inspirational.”

“Shall we return to the painting, Mr. Fitz?”

“Of course.”

Most of the portrait was already painted, but there were still certain areas and details to be captured that continued to elude him. Miss Ophelia had an excellent poise, elegance and composure carefully learned, but her presence could be heavy, suffocating like the prelude she had been playing.

It was painstaking work because there was something strange about her, about her visage. As if she was trying to hide something and he couldn’t quite catch it. She was always very generous with him (perhaps _too_ generous at times), but this behaviour clashed with stories he had heard, such as the one of Miss Edith. At times there was an eagerness directed at him, which quite frankly it frightened him somewhat. Once she even refered to him as _her_ Mr. Fitz, linking her arm with his when talking to her uncle, something which left him rather uncomfortable.

After a couple of hours had gone by, Fitz stood up and said that his work was practically finished, only needing a few details and retouches to be finished.

“Oh, Mr. Fitz, are you going to leave me already?,” she stood up.

“We’ve had a few sessions where I painted you, Miss Ophelia.”

“But they have gone by so quickly for me. Your presence illuminates my life and this house,” she walked a little closer to him. “I wish you would always visit!”

Fitz was at a loss for words. That uncomfortable sensation was filling him up again. “Miss Ophelia, you have to understand that I have other clients to paint and that I need to leave.”

“Ah, what a pity. What clients? Surely they can’t be more important than me,” her voice becoming lower.

“Every client deserves my attention and commitment, Miss Ophelia,” declared Fitz, one step behind.

“Oh well, if it has to be. Perhaps I might throw a lavish party and unveil your work of art for everyone to see and admire it!”

“That is for you to decide, Miss Ophelia. Good afternoon,” he bowed his head before finally leaving the Radcliffe house.

 

***

Jemma was currently at the _Cygnus Books_ bookshop. It was heavily raining outside and it was very convenient to remain inside the bookshop. Luckily Jemma always liked to be prepared and had already brought an umbrella with her. However, she would rather stay inside for a while given that unpleasing gust of wind. The place had an atmosphere that calmed her, despite the noise of money and people talking. Sometimes she enjoyed spending part of her mornings or her afternoons in one of the little corners the bookshop had so people could sit down on small couches and read a book. That environment soothed her somehow.

However, she was now perusing not only the novelties but also other books, casually trying to see if any of them appealed to her in particular. She was about to take a book from one of the shelves when she realised someone on the other side of the shelf had a very familiar voice.

 _That_ Scottish accent.

_The voice of the mystery man from the ball._

Jemma suddenly got nervous, yet trying to calm down herself and wiping her slightly sweating hands on her long skirt. She was on the verge of discovering the identity of the mystery man from the ball. She tried to control her fear that threathened to take over her and she walked and turned to the next shelf only to see... Mr. Fitz talking to someone who worked in the book shop.

_“Mr. Fitz?!”_

Mr. Fitz turned back to look at her, caught by surprise.

“Excuse me, did I say that out loud?,” asked Jemma.

“Yes, you did.” Mr Fitz had a stunned look on his face.

“I cannot believe it! So you are the mystery man from the ball?! That is—

“Please speak more quietly. I think some people are starting to look at us.” He thanked the person of the bookshop for his help and he led Jemma to a more intimate corner of the book shop where they could sit down.

“Oh, excuse me. It was not my intention. As I was saying, is that why you barely spoke or looked at me when you met me the other day?

“As soon as you talked I immediately knew you were the mysterious lady from the ball and I do not think it would have been correct if I aluded to our previous meeting. So I left as quickly as I could,” said Mr. Fitz.

“You were trying to protect me in a way,” concluded Jemma.

“I was trying to protect both of us from what could have been a dangerous situation and also from my own anxiety,” Mr. Fitz justified.

“I understand,” Jemma said. “Masks often allow us to be what we dare not we in real life often because we already have another mask ready to put as we face society. As much as love a good riddle, I am glad that this one is solved,” smiled Jemma.

“It pained me so much to act the way I did the week after the party, because I felt there was some kind of connection between during our conversation, that we could get along...,” said Fitz.

“I felt the same way about the mystery man, but not about Mr. Fitz! Your brief look at me, your expression.... For some reason I thought you disliked me! But now that I know you are both are the same person, but I can imagine how you felt.”

“In such a great city, the probabilities of this happening wouldn’t have been great.”

“But it did,” Jemma raised her inquisitive hazel eyes to find Mr. Fitz’s.

“And yet it did,” and Mr. Fitz let his gentle blue eyes hold her gaze.

After a couple of seconds, Jemma broke the spell by asking Mr. Fitz what brought him there to that bookshop.

“Well, I could give the obvious answer, which is “books” (she smiled), but I was looking for a book on photography by Holden Radcliffe. I’ve been working on the portrait of her niece at their house and he has showed me his photography studio, which I found extremely interesting.”

“So will your painting days soon be over?,” asked Jemma.

“Oh no”, replied Fitz, “I will continue to paint, but I’m always interested new inventions and photography is also an art though some might think not.”

“Oh good. I have heard so many excellent things about your painting skills and I was hoping to see them one day.”

“Perhaps one day I might paint your portrait?,” asked Fitz, bold despite his slighly red cheeks.

“Perhaps. I can’t promise to be the best subject to paint but I will try not to move too much,” Jemma chuckled.

Fitz looked as his pocket watch. “Oh no, it is time for me to go. I have some matters of importance to take care of and I do not want to be late,” said Fitz.

“What a pity, Mr. Fitz, but I understand. The weather outside is dreadful, rainy and windy. Have you brought an umbrella?"

“No, I have not. The weather is always so unstable that one ends up giving up bringing umbrellas. Hopefully the rain will eventually stop.”

“I think that the wind is not as strong now. Where are you going? If we share the same path or part of it you could also benefit from my umbrella at least for some time...”

“Thank you very much for your kind offer, Miss Simmons, but I will go on my own. Hopefully we will have time to walk and talk more another day,” Fitz said, kissing her hand goodbye and leaving Jemma as if her hand had received a shock. She drew her hand near her lips, still feeling the ghost of his goodbye.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So another mystery has been unveiled and I've hit 10k words!
> 
> Feedback is always welcome.


	7. Invitations and Revelations

Jemma was currently reading the newest edition of _The Shield_ for a two-fold reason — her interest in the articles and to see if her own article had already been published. From what she had seen so far, her article remained unpublished, but she knew that sometimes articles could be saved for the following editions so she was not giving up hope yet. She had got her hands on an edition of _The Gatekeeper_ too (she wanted to avoid spending her money on such a nasty piece of writing), not to find pleasure in such rethorical, harmful, toxic writing, but merely to enjoy the replies she could find in _The Shield_ to articles in Gideon Malick’s sponsored publication.

Besides, she could still appreciate the cartoon of _The Shield_ ’s new publication... James Knight had done it again. Using a Hydra as a dark place with a queue of people using shields and swords to keep cutting the heads of that serpentine water monster, because if evil cannot even be fully defeated, there will always be people who will try to do the right thing and keep evil at bay; to never forget the helpers.

Suddenly someone knocked on the library door, interrupting Jemma’s thoughts:

“Miss Jemma, there is a letter for you.”

“Thank you, Piper.”

“There is also a messenger outside waiting for an answer, Miss.”

As Jemma opened the letter she wondered what was waiting for her in it:

 

“ _My dear friend Jemma,_

_I was hoping you could spend tomorrow’s afternoon here with me. My godfather is most of the time busy with business and there is only so much Mrs. May one can bear (even if I love her dearly). I’m also writing a letter to Mrs. Hunter (or Barbara or Bobbi if she prefers to be called that way) so we might have a lovely afternoon together and talk about many things. Can you please come tomorrow at 4 pm?_

_Yours truly,_

_Daisy Johnson_

 

“Tell him I will go.”

“I will do so, Miss Jemma.”

Without further ado, we jump to the afternoon of the next day, as Jemma alights from the carriage and rings the bell of Mr. Coulson’s house. The butler opens the door but Miss Johnson, that is, Daisy is already at the door waiting for her guest to arrive.

“Hello Jemma, it is so lovely to see you. Bobbi has just arrived as well and is already at the greenhouse.

“The greenhouse?”

“Yes, it’s a place covered in glass and yes, it has some plants, but also a table and chairs. It’s one of my favourite corners in this house.

As Daisy showed Jemma the way to get to the greenhouse, she could understand why it was one of her favourite corners. She could very well imagine herself quietly reading a book with her feet on an ottoman while drinking a cup of tea as it rained outside.

“It is indeed very lovely, Daisy,” said Jemma.

“Is it, isn’t it?”

“Hello Bobbi, how have you been?”

“Quite well. It is possible your cousin might show up her later.”

The conversation took on a lively tone soon enough, as it happens among good friends. Yes, some of the latest fashions were discussed as they looked at the new fashion plates, but also the criticism surrounding the usage of s-line corsets with some critics saying it created an unnatural harmful shape for women.

At a certain point in their conversation, Daisy decided to change the theme — “I have been dying to go somewhere different since I got here. It’s not that I don’t like the city, but I’d like a change of view, something I don’t know,” sighed Daisy.

“As a fellow American I would agree with Daisy, we need a different scenario to be our sight for sore eyes,” Bobbi said.

“Perhaps we might travel to the sea coast? There are several places to visit, pity we can’t go too far away.... Hmm...” wondered Jemma.

“What about Brighton? Not too far away and we could definitely enjoy the view and spend a few days there,” suggested Hunter, coming out of his hiding place and entering the greenhouse.

“Oh my goodness, don’t you do that again! You could have scared us to death,” reproached Bobbi.

“I had just arrived and heard something about going to the sea coast, so I chimed in with an idea that fit the topic of conversation.”

“It’s actually a good idea,” Jemma agreed.

“Thank you cousin Jem, I get them from time to time”, Hunter quipped.

“Well, looks like we have a place to go,” agreed Bobbi.

“Oh, I want to meet Brighton!” said Daisy. “With a bigger group of people surely it won’t be necessary for Mrs. May to keep me company.”

“Hey, Jemma, what about we invite Mr. Fitz too? Mr. Coulson knows him and perhaps the view might inspire him to paint something,” Jemma’s cousin wiggled his eyebrows.

“I don’t understand what you mean,” she said, pretending she did not know what he could be alluding to.

“Yeah Jemma, why not? You could see if he improves with further acquaintance,” eagerly nodded Bobbi and Daisy with a touch of teasing.

“You should question Mr. Fitz about that, not me,” declared Jemma. For some reason she had decided not to mention that she had found him in the bookshop and discovered that he was the mystery man from the ball.

Daisy was quick to share her opinion as well, “he might be a little difficult to meet at first because he is shy, but once you manage to become his friend, he will always be at your side.”

“He seems to be a good lad from what I know about him, even if he’s a little odd sometimes,” Hunter added.

The sound of a bell was heard. Hunter left the greenhouse while the ladies kept talking, lost in the conversation about Brighton and the growing popularity of frequenting the beach. Then two men’s voices began to be heard, first softly and then stronger as they came closer to the greenhouse; Jemma froze in her place, her ears focused on the other voice besides Hunter’s, the man with a Scottish accent. Mr. Fitz, of course.

“—yeah Hunter, but I don’t know if I — Oh. Good afternoon, ladies,” said Mr. Fitz, ”Miss Daisy, I was looking for your godfather because I have something to discuss with him—”

“If he is not in his office he has probably gone out to take care of business. As usual.”

Due to Jemma sitting on a chair facing the windows and with its back turned towards Mr. Fitz, he had not recognised that Jemma was there, only Daisy and Bobbi.

“Good afternoon, Mr Fitz.” Jemma said, as she turned around in her wicker chair. Mr. Fitz, caught unprepared, saw the look of pleasant surprise in Jemma’s eyes.

“Oh, good afternoon, Miss Simmons. I’m sorry I didn’t recognise you at first.”

“Why don’t you join us for a little while, Fitz?, “asked Daisy.

“Well perhaps I might stay a bit to see if Mr. Coulson arrives,” Mr. Fitz said.

The fact that that Jemma had not told anyone (and apparently neither Mr. Fitz) about her meeting with Mr. Fitz at the bookshop, let alone about what had occurred at the masquerade ball, was creating a strange effect in the room. Daisy and Bobbi looked at each other, sharing curious looks and wondering which part of the story they had missed since _that_ time after the ball when Miss Simmons and Mr. Fitz had been officially introduced.

“Hey, Fitz, just before you arrived we were talking about a trip to Brighton... Would you like to get out of the city and breath some fresh air?,” asked Hunter.

“Seems like a welcome change to me. Being stuck in the city for too long isn’t too good for one’s mind,” replied Fitz.

“Excellent!,” approved Hunter. In the next minutes some details of the trip were discussed. They would go by train and stay a couple of days in Brighton.

From there they quickly returned to discussing current events and politics and how they seemed to be on the verge of something though they were not quite sure what.

When the conversation took a turn to the role of women today, Jemma could not help but sharing some of her thoughts, “most of the time women aren’t seen as human beings, they’re either put on pedestals or the depths of hell.”

“Why do you say that, Miss Simmons?” asked Mr. Fitz.

“Often men create this dichotomy where women are either the image of perfection or the image of perversion while most of us live in the space between both extremes.”

“So you disagree with the many poets who glorify women,” teased Mr. Fitz.

“Perhaps I do. I’m not denying the beauty of many poems about women, but we should also be aware of the dangers of seeing the reality through a black and white lens,” replied Jemma.

“It is true that we often tend to look at reality that way when in fact, it’s usually painted with many shades of grey and shades of many other colours,” Mr. Fitz’s artistic metaphor coming naturally to him, being the painter that he was.

“Mary Wollstonecraft already advocated for women’s equality and right to an education! Women shouldn’t be mere adornements or trinkets in their homes. They can do a lot if only they are given more opportunities or if they do something, they’re often hidden in the backstage and men take the prize,” concluded Miss Simmons.

“I recall Mary Anning’s story, for example, but I’m sure you can tell it more eloquently,” smiled Mr. Fitz.

“She is an example of what I said before; her discoveries were so important in the palaeontology world, but she could not join the Geological Society of London simply because she was a woman,” concluded Jemma.

“The Brontë sisters also had to write using neutral names, for example,” added Mr. Fitz.

“Yes and George Eliot, or to be correct, Mary Ann Evans. Oh, and Jane Austen’s work was published—“

“Hum, this conversation is very interesting but it is slowly becoming like a tennis match, watching you both talk at each other,” jokes Daisy.

“Perhaps Mr. Fitz should sit closer to Miss Simmons so they can talk more easily with each other?” asked Bobbi, making both people mentioned blush a little.

“It is not necessary,” both Miss Simmons and Mr. Fitz said at the same time, now becoming even more embarrassed while the rest of the group merrily laughed.

“I think it’s time for some refreshments!” Daisy suggested, going to the kitchen to help prepare something. Not too long after there was on the table fresh lemonade, orange juice and biscuits ready to be drunk and eaten.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next stop: Brighton!


	8. A Visit to Brighton

The awaited day had finally arrived — the trip to Brighton. For a few seconds Jemma imagined herself as part of a Jane Austen novel before she remembered that Brighton had been the place where Lydia Bennet had run away with George Wickham and that daydream quickly faded away as she chuckled to herself. Either way, a change of scenery would be refreshing and a way of getting away from the demanding London Season, because there is only too much of it that one can handle. Brighton had developed as a fashionable seaside resort, encouraged by the patronage of the Prince Regent, who would later become King George IV, and it continued to grow in importance during Victorian times.

Everyone’s baggage was ready to go, suitcases and bags packed for travelling. The party was formed by Miss Simmons, Mr and Mrs Hunter, Miss Johnson and Mr. Fitz. They had reached an agreement that they would go by train in what was called the Brighton line, owned by the London, Brighton and South Coast Railway. An adventure required something different, something new. The party would spend a weekend in town, taking advantage of the wonderful views, of the walks on the piers — West pier and the Palace pier — both inaugurated in the second half of the 19th century, and the fresh air of the sea.

The 50 mile trip to Brighton was mostly uneventful, filled with people excited to enjoy everything Brighton had to offer. Miss Johnson could not wait until they got there. Everyone looked outside the window from time to time, seeing the landscape passing by them, but Jemma noticed that Mr. Fitz seemed fascinated by it somehow. Curious to see the opposite of his work, which was to preserve moments onto a canvas, while here the landscape escaped his eyes, but with the evolution of technology, he was certain men were already trying to find ways of recording many moments. Like many photographs together depicting a movement.

After arriving in Brighton, and going through the check-in process at the place where they would stay, the group saw locals and visitors relaxing at the pebble beach, with some people, including children, getting their feet wet by the salty water of the Atlantic. The streets bustled with people in a different way of the city and the new group went out for a walk as well.

“Here the corsets of restriction seem to loosen somewhat from what I can see,” commented Bobbi.

“A different place, a different air,” added Lance. “The Season is often a bore to be quite honest.”

“How scandalous this would look in the city, don’t you think, Jemma?” asked Daisy.

“Oh yes, certain ladies would be utterly shocked,” chuckled Jemma.

Mr Fitz didn’t seem to be a man of many words (unless he was hidden behind a mask, as Jemma remembered), but she wanted, to use a marine metaphor, to help him get out of his shell.

“And what about you, Mr. Fitz, any comments to share with us?,” asked Jemma.

“Nothing in particular. So far I am taking in the atmosphere,” replied Mr. Fitz.

“Perhaps you do not know, but when I was younger, I often stayed with family at Perthshire,” Jemma shared.

“That’s in Scotland,” he said as he looked at her, mildly taken aback by the revelation.

“I know,” she smiled. “Sometimes I even imagined myself living in a cottage there.”

“And do you still imagine that?,” his question had in his eyes an intensity she was not expecting so she had to deflect his question:

“As I grew up I think I forgot about that thought but one never knows what might happen in the future, isn’t it?”

Their Mr Fitz and Jemma’s conversation came to an abrupt end when Daisy half exclaimed, half asked “isn’t that Captain Triplett? I could almost swear it is him.”

“From what I can see, it looks like him, but let us get closer to verify,”Bobbi said.

“Oh, it is!,” exclaimed Hunter.

“Oh, look at who I find here in Brighton! I’m very pleased to see you all again since that ball in mid June, although I don’t think I know everyone,” Captain Triplett hinting at Mr. Fitz.

“Indeed, Captain Triplett, this is Mr. Fitz, our friend and a successful Scottish painter” said Jemma.

“Pleased to met to you Mr. Fitz, I don’t recall seeing you at the Hunters’ ball.”

“My mask perhaps kept me hidden too well,” was Mr Fitz’s answer.

Captain Triplett gave a hearty laugh. “Excellent reply.”

“And what about you, Captain? What have you been doing?,” asked Daisy.

“I am currently catching up with some friends and family I had not seen in a while until I am given another mission.”

“We will be staying for the weekend so perhaps you might spare one of your nights and have dinner with us?, Daisy asked once more, with a spark in her eye.

“Tonight I have another engagement, but maybe tomorrow?,” the captain smiled.

“Excellent!,” proclaimed Lance.

“And now we will have an even number of people,” added Bobbi.

“Will you please excuse me, I have other affairs to attend to. Good afternoon to you all”, Captain Triplett said, leaving his last charming look for Daisy.

 

***

When dinner time came, Mr. Fitz was the first to come down the stairs, shortly before Mr. Hunter and Captain Triplett did. The ladies took a little more time but not as much as the men joked among themselves.

“Oh, were we all waiting for the main beauties of the dining room,” teased Captain Triplett.

“You did not have to wait for us for too long, of that I am certain,” Bobbi replied.

“You are correct, my dear, I wouldn’t want a quarrel with you,” answered back Lance in his usual teasing fashion to his wife.

“So shall we go to the dining room then?,” was Jemma’s question.

Lance and Bobbi linked their arms with each other as Captain Triplett and Daisy did, which left Jemma to enter the room with Mr. Fitz. She felt like her stomach somersaulted and suddenly her hands felt warmer. Mr. Fitz without a mask was more shy and unsure but she liked to see his face, bright blue eyes, the hints at curly blond hair and scruff. When she looked ahead she was almost certain he was looking at her as well, and she wondered what he did think about her.

The group looked at the available menus to choose what they were going to eat. Jemma noticed Mr. Fitz’s discomfort, perhaps less used to this kind of more sophisticated event, but she kept her silence because she knew that the worst thing to do to an anxious person is precisely to point out exactly that.

“What about we have a lighter dinner? There are so many courses and perhaps it would be healthier not to exaggerate,” suggested Jemma.

“I’ve already said before that you British people eat too many four and five course meals,” laughed Daisy before being joined by the rest of the party.

While the dinner was taking place, conversation was in a way also a course of the meal on a more intellectual level.

“Oh, _The Shield_ is something we deserved because we also to deal with the existence of _The Gatekeeper_. Some of the things written there are absolutely atrocious and shocking in terms of content. It’s terrible. Lance can still sarcastically laugh at some of the articles but I can’t. Many can’t see but society is slowly changing, women’s eyes are being open, sadly many are still clinging on to the old way of life, but things have to change. And what do you think of Mr. James Knight’s cartoons?” asked Jemma.

Suddenly Mr. Fitz coughed as if a piece of food was going down the wrong tube and excused himself, asking her please to continue.

“Oh, I like them. Pretty sarcastic yet honest, isn’t it Bobbi?,” asked Lance.

“ Yes, I concur. I already know that Jemma is a big admirer of them,” said Bobbi.

“I think they are amazing because the author finds a way to portray current affairs with a certain irony yet they are thought-provoking,” replied Jemma.

Daisy added: “I admire that many are fighting back. Men aren’t going to freely give us anything. Changes never happen that peacefully. And being different can be used as something to do some good in this world. It’s like that quote from Austen’s Persuasion...”

“None of us want to be in calm waters all our lives.” asked Jemma.

“Yes, it’s that one, thank you Jemma.”

“I am impressed once again by you, Miss Johnson. I already knew that you danced and are witty, and now I’m pleasantly surprised by your awareness and intelligence,” commented Captain Triplett, with a teasing lilt to his words.

“Thank you, Captain,” Daisy smirking at him.

“Honestly”, added Jemma, “even corsets are a way of making us prisoners if we think about it. Men are luckier in that sense. Women’s fashion often seems to restrain women, not allowing them to move more freely and then it is layers and layers and more layers.”

“I cannot directly relate to what you have said about corsets, Miss Simmons, but I can sympathise with your cause,” said Captain Triplett.

“I am glad, Captain”.

“And what about we go to the sitting room and my dear cousin plays something for us?, Lance asked.

“Oh no. In front of all these people here?,” Jemma suddenly shy.

“Dear cousin, your piano playing is excellent from what I have heard lately. Please, help me convince my cousin to play the piano.”

“Please Jemma,” both Bobbi and Daisy said, “we would love to hear you play!”

“Miss Simmons, will you do me the favour of playing something for us? Who knows when I might hear it again!” insisted the Captain.

Jemma was almost giving in to their requests, but when Mr. Fitz himself expressed his desire of hearing her play the piano, she could hardly refuse.

She left the sofa where she was resting, and found a way to the hotel’s piano which happened to be free, and sitting on the stool, she waited for some seconds, trying to find the piece which her fingers were about to play.

Suddenly the soft first notes of a piece by Débussy were heard. The delicate [_Clair de Lune_](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FwEN89Tmgkc) or moonlight, the 3rd movement of the Suite Bergamasque, released some time ago. As she continued to play and consequently lost herself to the music, it felt like a very intimate moment and most people present were appreciating the music being played by Jemma. Mr. Fitz was so entranced by Jemma’s piano playing that his blue eyes never left her and he was unaware of a waiter near him waiting for him to take a flute of champagne. The song continued, the dynamics of it changing when necessary, from _pianissimo_ to _piano_ to _forte_ , and vice-versa or other combinations, played more quickly or more slowly. When Jemma finally finished playing _Clair de Lune_ everyone in the sitting room was clapping and a red-faced smiling Jemma made her way to her friends.

“See, dear cousin, I knew it,” said cousin Lance, acting more like a big brother.

“Oh dear, my cheeks are so hot. I had never played for so many people, only in small family gatherings,” said Jemma.

“Then I’m very glad you’ve made an exception for us today. It was a magical performance,” commented Mr. Fitz a little shyly.

“No need to be shy, Mr. Fitz, you just said the truth,” smiled Captain Triplett.

“Jemma, I loved your performance. So good!,” Daisy couldn’t keep herself from being expressive.

“Things like these are indeed the small joys of life,” said Bobbi.

“Thank you, everyone, thank you,”

 

***

The following day brought good weather. Not much was done in the morning, but in the afternoon, Mr. and Mrs. Hunter preferred to visit some places in the town. Daisy and Captain Triplett enjoyed the view from the beach for a while with Jemma and Mr. Fitz, but then they decided to walk along the piers that Brighton had to offer. Mr. Fitz had brought his sketch book, saying that there were many things he wanted to memorise, as if he was taking a photograph of what he saw. But he wanted to do it with his bare hands and through what his eyes saw. After a while, with some objects and sights drawn on paper, he turned to Miss Simmons, who was wearing a lovely blue and white printed [summer day dress](http://ic.pics.livejournal.com/alienordis/49498193/713698/713698_original.jpg) with a white blouse with lace and frills and a boater hat.

“Miss Simmons, I’d like to ask you something,” Mr. Fitz asked. He had the tone of someone who had been preparing himself to ask that precise question.

“Go on.”

“May I sketch you?”

“Oh. I don’t think I’m a very interesting subject.”

“On the contrary, Miss Simmons. Everyone has something that is only theirs. Never underestimate the effect you can have,” he said, throwing a quick look at her and then finding refuge on his sketch book, opening it on a new, blank page when Jemma looked at him, with his last sentence still in her mind. Mr. Fitz’s last words left her speechless and she dared not ask him what he meant by them. But she had a proposal to make.

“Okay, I agree to be sketched as long as you answer some questions I make.”

“Hum... very well.”

“Excellent. Do you want me to sit in a certain way or—“

“No, Miss Simmons, I just want you to sit as you naturally choose, watching and admiring the world around you, the sea, the people... Whatever you want.”

Jemma heard the sounds of charcoal on the page, careful and attentive, attempting to immortalise a moment.

“Can I speak?”

“Perhaps not now for the moment.”

Mr. Fitz kept on working on his sketch of Jemma for a few more minutes, trying to trace her profile on paper.

“Can I speak now?”

“Yes, you can, but don’t move much please.”

“Very well. So where are you from in Scotland?”

“I’m from Glasgow.”

“Ah, I’ve been to Perthshire – as you know – and Edinburgh but never in Glasgow.”

“You should go there one day.”

“I’ll keep that suggestion in mind. Have you been in the city for too long?”

“For a couple of years, but I go back north from time to time to visit my ma.”

“It must be difficult for your mother to have her son away. Do you have any siblings?”

“No, just me and my mum,” he said with a little smile.

“Excuse me if I am intruding but did something happen to your father?“

”I don’t have many good memories of him to be honest, and then years ago there was the war in South Africa and we never knew anything about him again. He just disappeared.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.”

“Can I take a look at your sketch?”

“Not yet. Only when it’s finished.”

“Perhaps I should change the subject. Did you happen to read an article on _The Shield_ by Mr. Charles Martin?

“Charles Martin? Hum... Yes, I think I did. I reckon it was a good one.

“Really?”

“Yes, really.”

“I wonder how many of these articles signed with male names are actually written by women.”

“There must be a few surely but I suppose one must fight with the tools one has.”

“Indeed. Our society seems to require it.

“When women write something they are usually more judged by who they are rather than by what they write.”

After some time, Jemma asked: “don’t you think Daisy and Captain Triplett should be back?

Mr Fitz laughed.

“Perhaps we should remain here and wait for everyone to arrive?”

“Perhaps.”

Neither of them was aware of the woman dressed in a plum and creme attire metres away casually observing them, someone both of them knew — Ophelia Radcliffe — and neither was aware of the jealousy and possessiveness that overtook her, almost letting her make a scene in front of everyone. However, she thought it would be beneath her do to such a thing and she kept her feelings boiling inside her, letting them simmer and in the right moment she would strike.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dum dum dum. Ophelia must be up to something. But in the meantime let us enjoy the Brighton adventures of our friends.


	9. The Shield

Business was as usual as the group returned from Brighton back to the city. Weeks passed with nothing particularly relevant happening, unless you’d rather hear about tales of paying formal and informal visits, balls, sports events such as golf and tennis matches and horse races, meetings in tea rooms or in other less innocent places — houses of ill reputation; in other words, the daily life in the beginning of the 20th century.

Jemma continued to read _The Shield_ as well as other newspapers to be informed and had already written two articles (still under her _nom de plume_ ) focused on the vote as a sign of equality and justice and on child labour. She had managed to hide this activity from her parents because she knew that them being aware of it would seriously compromise her objectives. She had also returned to the draft of a novel she had put aside months ago, focused on a woman who found herself in some kind of alternative universe, in a planet so different from her own, where it was almost always night, sometimes more of a twilight, and she had to survive in it so that she could find her way back to her own planet and the people she loved.

Jemma, Daisy and Bobbi continued to visit each other often, talking about current events and sharing a laugh or two while gossiping a little too. One day Bobbi told them that she was expecting a child and the other young ladies were quick to congratulate her.

Jemma had not seen Mr. Fitz very often lately, although she knew that he and her cousin Lance met each other sometimes. She had felt something again, a _je ne sais quoi_ back in Brighton, back to the very first time they talked to each other even, as if they were in the same frequency and there was a force driving them together, but now she had seen him once or twice and she was not sure about what to think.

A new edition of _The Shield_ was going to be published soon and everything had to be ready. In one of the ladies’ reunions, Daisy told them she had a secret to share with both of them — _The Shield_ headquarters.

“Really?” both Jemma and Bobbi said simultaneously.

“Yes?” my godfather knows you’re trustworthy and after all one of you already publishes there,” Daisy winking at Jemma.

“Wait, who is— Jemma?! asked Bobbi.

Jemma hesitated slightly before nodding. “Under a pseudonym of course.”

“So and when are we going to make that little excursion?” asked Bobbi.

“Tomorrow in the late afternoon.” said Daisy. “The place isn’t exactly a big secret but it’s important that it isn’t well known. Oh, and you might find there some acquaintances of your own, I’m warning you,” Daisy teased.

 

***

On the following day, Jemma could not help but feel this underlying anxiety about visiting _The Shield_ headquarters. It felt like doing something illegal and maybe that was the reason why her body was reacting that way. When it was time to leave she told her mother that she was going to have a late afternoon tea with Mrs. Hunter and Miss Johnson, and she hoped her parents would not be suspicious. Technically she was not telling a lie.

Daisy naturally assumed the command of the excursion though Bobbi and Jemma were close to her so the situation didn’t look strange. Jemma was beginning to get confused about where they were when they finally went down some stairs and Daisy knocked on a dark blue door.

Someone from the inside said “Password?”

And Daisy replied “Quake.”

The door was then open and it was as if they entered another world.

“The passwords change from time to time for security reasons,” said Daisy.

“Makes sense,” Bobbi replied.

Jemma was taken over by her view of some people working on their desks writing articles, making sure that everything was correct in content and format wise so that it could go to the typographer and then being printed. She enjoyed that kind of bustle, that hubbub of conversation and preparation of a new edition of _The Shield_. It was as if everything around her was happening in slow motion.

“I think Jemma looks hypnotised, “ commented Bobbi.

“No wonder. Hey,” Daisy said, snapping her fingers in front of Jemma, “come back!”

“Oh, excuse me. I got lost in all this hubbub,” said Jemma.

“We noticed. Anyway, you are seeing the desks where the different journalist and other writers are and there are people in charge of certain sections. Like a normal publication, I would say, but our content differs from other newspapers.

“Oh look, it’s Mr. Coulson!”

“Good afternoon ladies, I see that Daisy is already showing the place where _The Shield_ comes to life.

“Oh, she is and Jemma seems fascinated by what she has seen so far,” Bobbi said.

“Mr. Coulson, this place is quite wonderful.” When Jemma had sent her first article to be published in _The Shield_ , she had given it to Daisy, making her promise she wouldn’t look at it and just deliver it to the editor-in-chief, so she hadn’t had the chance to see the headquarters before.

“I’m glad you like it. Sometimes I wonder how all of this can work! Let me pass all these desks and introduce you to the editor-in-chief of _The Shield_... Margaret Carter but more known as Peggy Carter.

“Oh! Peggy Carter!

“Good afternoon Mrs. Hunter, Miss Simmons, Miss Johnson. It’s wonderful to have you here. There is always something happening here as you can see. We have our main typographer, Mr. Mackenzie, who helps putting together all the words that appear on the publication so that we all read it correctly. Mr. Coulson has told me that you had been introduced to him at the Hunters’ ball. One of our best couriers isn’t here but Yoyo’s work is very important to us. She’s quick and perceptive. Some of our article writers don’t work here — Jemma’s hand was holding her necklace in a slightly nervous way — but they know how to find their way here. We also have proofreaders, of course, so the articles appear as they should be in print.

Suddenly someone knocks on the Headqurters door. Someone from the inside says “password” while a “quake” is heard in a voice somewhat familiar to Jemma. The door opens and it reveals... Mr. Fitz. _Mr Fitz?_ , Jemma thought. When Mr. Fitz saw her in that group of people, he also stopped. A few seconds passed but someone had to recover soon and this time it was Mr. Fitz though not without some kind of nervous energy and he took a very brief look at Jemma:

“Good afternoon to you all. Ms. Carter, I have been trying to come up with ideas for a new cartoon but I find myself somewhat restless and tired at the same time. Would it be possible to take a look at some of the articles merely for inspiration?

“Cartoon? Could he be- Is he James Knight?!” Jemma wondered. Mr. Fitz, painter in ascension in the day, cartoonist for _The Shield_ by night. He had just become even more interesting than he already was.

Margaret Carter looked at her pile of articles on her desk, “Very well, let me see what I have here... as she checked the articles; would you be interested in drawing a cartoon related to this article I have here by Charles Martin on child labour?” Jemma remained stuck to the same spot, as if her whole body had become paralysed and she could only move her eyes.

“I shall read it right away and see what I can come up with, Ms. Carter,” replied Mr. Fitz, as he found a place to seat in one of the free desks. Jemma could see some of the faces he did as he read her own article. Sometimes he looks very focused, at others thoughtful and scratched his neck once after he briefly looked at Jemma. Could he possibly know?! Did he think of his secret now uncovered or did he somehow suspect of her own secret? When he finished reading the article he picked up his sketch book and began doodling, trying to find ideas; then he seemed to have this look of concentration on his face, an indication of him being fully focused at work.

The group of people Fitz greeted as he arrived were still in conversation, but Jemma saw Mr. Fitz briefly looking at them (her?) once or twice, not wanting to be caught, but she knew. The article talked about the importance of education of children so they wouldn’t be another cog in the machine too soon, with barely any time for them. Fitz himself felt very lucky for having the chance to study for a certain period of time and also to have been noticed one day in the streets of Glasgow by Mr. Coulson, admiring what he was painting (the view in front of him) and how talented he already was at such a young age.

The idea of a wall somehow found its way to his brain and he drew a group of children breaking that wall down with hammers, and opening themselves a way to a change. Some time had passed when Fitz found his way back to Ms. Carter (Jemma, Daisy and Bobbi weren’t there anymore, he noticed) with something for her to look at....

“Wow, Fitz, this is powerful. It will go perfectly with Charles Martin’s acerbic and thoughtful article.”

 

***

A couple of days later, Jemma had the delight of seeing Mr. Fitz's cartoon associated to her own article about child labour. He had understood the concept of not being another brick in the wall, another cog in the machine; that children deserve to have an education. She wondered what would his reaction be if he knew that his cartoon was related to an article she had written.


	10. Ophelia's Ball

Halfway through August, the Season brought one of the most anticipated events of the year — Miss Ophelia Radcliffe’s birthday ball. It would surely be a lavish party, organised by Ophelia herself who liked to be in charge and make sure that everything would be perfect and flawless. It would also be an excellent opportunity to exhibit her new portrait by the up-and-coming Scottish painter Mr. Leopold Fitz.

Unfortunately for Ophelia, politeness required her sending invitations to people she would rather not encounter. However, such was one of the requisites to be considered a great lady of society and Ophelia Radcliffe aimed to excel at such a task, and her uncle was proud of her niece. So it was not exactly a surprise that the Simmons household received an invitation too, despite Ophelia’s recent dislike of Miss Jemma Simmons because of Mr. Fitz. Mr. Fitz was hers first, how she dare to try to steal him from her?!

She remembered those painting sessions with Mr. Fitz and it felt like he was staring into her soul and his pensive looks made her feel there might be some tension in the air. What Miss Radcliffe didn’t quite understand is that Mr. Fitz’s perspective from those painting sessions didn’t exactly agree with Ophelia’s point of view.

With dozens of guests being invited, obviously there had to be room for them all, something that the Radcliffe mansion didn’t lack. After dinner was served, there would be room for dancing and gaming tables for those less inclined to dance. Everything was closely followed by Miss Ophelia — “in the details there is sophistication!” — from the menu to the drinks to the musicians to the placement of guests at dinner (of course she had to sit Miss Simmons as far as she could from Mr. Fitz), not to forget a place for the guests to leave whatever belongings they had brought with them.

It was the one of the main subjects of conversation in the city and Ophelia liked it that way. It was just another way of increasing her good reputation. She longed to be lauded as an example of how a upper-class young lady should behave and dress. When the night of Miss Ophelia Radcliffe’s birthday arrived, almost everyone who was of importance attended the event. Whatever happened, good or bad, it would surely be the main theme of gossip.

Ophelia, dressed in a elegant shiny black [evening gown](https://www.facebook.com/thecorsetedbeauty/photos/a.1456631071305672.1073741828.1456391874662925/1696757547293022/?type=3&theater), was near the door welcoming the guests and thanking them for coming to her party. As one could predict, her greeting to Miss Simmons merely polite and with barely any warmth, which left Mr. and Mrs. Simmons somewhat confused yet their daughter might have an inkling as to why Miss Radcliffe behaved in that way. The Hunters were also there, just like Mr. Coulson and his goddaughter Miss Daisy Johnson and her companion Mrs. May among other guests such as Mr. Grant Ward, a rich and good-looking man, though were some strange rumours about him of being involved in some suspicious businesses. The haughty Mr. Gideon Malick and his daughter Stephanie also made an appearance but fortunately their paths didn’t cross with Mr. Coulson’s.

In dinner parties there are always many threads of conversation among their guests and one cannot participate or know everyone and everything so we shall skip to the end of the dinner. There was a brief separation between the gentlemen and the ladies and more conversations ensued; about the weather, the news, fashion, politics, economy and other themes before finally the men joined the ladies in the salon or the gathering room, where all the dancing would take place and drinks and appetisers would be served.

Miss Ophelia could not have chosen a better way to have everyone gathered in the same spot to unveil her new portrait. As she unveiled it, there were heard “ohs!” and “ahs!”, clearly pleased with the final result. Ophelia now called Mr. Fitz to stand beside her and her uncle, though he didn’t feel very uncomfortable with all the attention.

“And now that the surprise was revealed, I command you all to participate in the ball. Mr Fitz, what better way to start a ball by sharing a dance with you?”

“I’m pleased, Miss Radcliffe,” was his terse reply to her enthusiastic question, which left no space to any other answer.+

The ball began with a waltz, Archibald Joyce’s [_Autumn Song_](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3Q_dT_yJ8ec) _._ Fitz did know how to dance a waltz (his mother had taught him) but he had not been warned he was supposed to opening the ball by dancing with Miss Ophelia. Just another of her whims. After his initial confusion, he began to find the rhythm and his dancing became less stilted.

“Not used to dancing, Mr. Fitz?”, playfully asked Miss Ophelia.

“I don’t attend many balls.”

“Oh, perhaps you might find yourself attending more in the future.”

“I don’t really know what to think of tomorrow, let alone my entire future.”

“Maybe you might learn something sooner than you think.”

Fitz preferred to remain silent, thinking about Miss Ophelia’s words. To say the truth he just wanted this waltz to end so he didn’t have to dance with her anymore. It didn’t even allow him to truly appreciate the waltz. When the dance ended, he accompanied her to her uncle and thanked her for the dance and quickly lost himself in the crowd.

The ball followed its natural course, allowing a certain closeness that wouldn’t have happened any other way. It was some time before Mr. Fitz found some more friendly faces.

“Hunter, Bobbi, Daisy! Good evening. I’m happy to find someone more than a mere acquaintance.”

“Oh Fitz, I’m glad you’ve made it,” Bobbi said.

“That was a tough situation, huh? Having to open the ball with Miss Ophelia Radcliffe.”

“I’m glad I survived,” Fitz replied, in a deadpan manner.

“And still with a sense of humour, that’s good,” Bobbi said.

“If you are looking for a certain lady, she is currently dancing with my godfather," said Daisy.

"I’m surprised, he’s a better dancer than what I thought,” commented Lance.

Fitz remained with the Hunters and Miss Johnson until the end of the quadrille. Mr. Coulson and Jemma went to meet them after Daisy made a signal for them to come.

“Good evening Miss Simmons and Mr. Coulson.”

Jemma openly smiled while Mr. Coulson welcomed him, “I’m glad to seeing you here, Mr. Fitz.

“Well, it was not like I could skip it, could I?,” and the rest of the party laughed.

I’m going to drink some punch, would anyone like to accompany me?,” Jemma asked.

The Hunters declined her invitation saying they were not particularly thirsty and Mr. Coulson was already talking with someone else.

“I’d like—“ started Daisy, but stopped talking after Bobbi elbowed her.

“Mr. Fitz? Would you be my companion? I mean, for this short trip?,” asked Jemma.

“Gladly.”

While both of them were near the refreshments table, Jemma seemed to see Mr. Fitz looking at her but then he quickly looked ahead.

“Is something the matter, Mr. Fitz? Something you’d like to share?”

“I—uh—I think you look very beautiful in that dress, that is all.”

Jemma was particularly fond of the [dress](http://ephemeral-elegance.tumblr.com/post/122015295813/sequin-and-chiffon-ball-gown-ca-1905-10-via#notes) she was wearing this evening, her sequin and chiffon ball gown, blue tones wrapped in a armour of blue and gold sequins.

“Really? Thank you.”

People were saying that the next dance would be a waltz and now Fitz was going to be brave to ask her something he had spent most of the night wanting to ask:

“Miss Simmons, would you—ahem— would you give me the honour of the next dance?”

“ _Oh._ Of course, Mr. Fitz.”

The pairs walked to the middle of the dance floor. Mr. Fitz’s right hand found Jemma’s waist and she tried to disguise her sudden intake of breath. His left hand held her right one, and Jemma’s left hand was on Fitz’s right shoulder. The first notes of [Joseph Lanner’s Trennungswalzer](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mtmT4deqcqc) were heard. The pairs began to dance, and it felt like Jemma finally understood the reasons why the waltz was first seen in England as a scandalous dance a century ago. His warm hand on her waist, his hand holding hers; it felt dangerous somehow. But was the dance that made one feel like under a spell or did it just merely reveal feelings that were already there but hidden?

If it was difficult for Mr. Fitz to find his rhythm in the waltz he had shared with Miss Radcliffe, now it didn’t take long for Miss Simmons and Mr. Fitz to find their harmony within the waltz. It was as if they had already danced it before, a déjà vu. This was perhaps the closest they had been since they had met each other. He almost had her in his arms and yet he had to remain attentive to the dance.

“Where did you learn how to waltz?”

“I just took a quick and intensive course in the beginning of the ball, didn’t you see?” he deadpanned and she laughed. “No, actually my mother taught me when I was younger. And not always one can find the right rhythm with everyone.”

“How lovely. I’m imagining a younger you learning how to dance—

“—And stepping on my poor mother’s feet.”

“Don’t look, Mr. Fitz, but it seems someone is staring at us — it’s Miss Radcliffe. I don’t think she looks very happy.

“Miss Radcliffe seems to have a somewhat... tempestuous character. Some time ago I saw a maid fired just because she didn’t like the way she did things even if she had done them exactly as Miss Radcliffe asked her.”

“I think she doesn’t like the image of us both dancing together. Perhaps she would like another dance with you, Mr. Fitz.”

“I’d rather dance twice or thrice with you, Miss Simmons,” he boldly replied.

Mr. Fitz had this strange way with words where he said thought-provoking things in an almost casual way, and for some reason he became even more endearing to her.

They were now dancing closer to the place where Ophelia was and someone near her was commenting on what a good match those two were and another lady agreed. “Capital! Capital!”, another gentleman added to the conversation. Ophelia was positively fuming after listening to these comments and watching _her_ Mr. Fitz dance with _that_ Miss Simmons. But she would find a way around. She knew she would. He was _hers_.

Soon Miss Radcliffe stopped being seen at the party though most guests didn’t notice such thing, given how distracted they were with the dancing, eating and talking. After the waltz reached its end, Mr. Fitz thanked Miss Simmons for the dance while holding both of her hands in his and in response he received an warm, open smile.

Afterwards, Mr. Fitz decided to go to the garden. Eyes closed, a little smile and a deep breath of fresh air were his way of going back to what had just happened. It was... fascinating, invigorating. Miss Simmons had found her way into his veins and now he finally knew for sure he didn’t, couldn’t want to get her out of his heart. After a few minutes he felt someone drawing closer, could it be _his_ Jemma? He didn’t dare look back.

“Mr Fitz, seizing the air of the night?

It was Miss Ophelia. He couldn’t help but feel disappointment yet he tried to disguise it.

“Yes, indeed. It’s a very pleasant night and probably one of the last we will have in quite a while,” commented Mr. Fitz.

“The sky is fascinating.”

“Indeed.”

“Mr. Fitz, I need to fetch something at my uncle’s office to give you. Would you come with me, please?”

His first instinct was to say no, but he agreed out of curiosity and always ready to find a way out and leave.

Ophelia’s uncle office was slightly away of the ball room so it was a quieter place. When they reached the door, she opened it, making a slight noise, let Mr. Fitz enter the room and then she closed the door. He was certainly not waiting for Miss Radcliffe to turn around and kiss him. Fitz didn’t react and quickly took two steps back.

“What was that, Miss Radcliffe?”

“Please, call me Ophelia, and _that_ was a kiss.”

“A non-consensual kiss it was.”

“Leopold, please, let’s get past all this awkwardness. I have been aware of your feelings for me for some time now.”

“What?! What feelings?”, baffled by both what she had said and how she had addressed him.

“Come on, Leopold, while you were painting me for the new portrait? You think I didn’t feel the connection between us?”

Fitz looked utterly shocked. “I was merely looking at you to paint your portrait as a gift for you from your uncle. That was what happened. And nothing more.

“Nothing more?! How dare you say “nothing more?!”, Ophelia’s voice becoming louder.

“Miss Radcliffe, you must be very confused, because you seem to have seen something that simply wasn’t there. I am sorry.”

“Sorry? You say you are sorry?! Hahaha no. No. No. You saw what I saw.”

“Excuse me, Miss Radcliffe, but you don’t seem to be feeling very well, should I fetch a doctor?”

“NO!”, shards of mirror falling on the floor after she broke it with a punch and now blood was coming out of her hand.

“I am very sorry Miss Radcliffe, but there is no room in my heart for you because it is already someone else’s.”

“What is her name, uh? Is it Miss Sim—“

“Is everything alright here?”, asked a voice from outside.

“Yes, Miss Simmons, it is quite alright. You can come in—“

“No, Miss Simmons!”, Fitz shouted as soon as he caught a glimpse of a shard in Ophelia’s hand, but it Jemma had already partially come in and was quickly under Ophelia’s control with a longer shard of mirror ready to cut Jemma’s neck.

“Please, please, don’t hurt her,” pleaded Fitz.

“Why not? After all she is the main obstacle to our happiness.”

“She’s not an obstacle to anything. Please, don’t do anything you might regret later.”

“Like this?,” and some blood from Jemma’s neck started to trickle down.”

“Please, please stop!! Don’t do that to her!”

“Does her life mean more to you than mine?”

Fitz opted to deflect the question to avoid antagonising her even more. “I wouldn’t like to see anyone hurt in front of me.”

“So WHY are you hurting me?, cried Ophelia as Jemma tried her hardest not to let that shard of mirror touch her neck again and exchanged a look with Fitz, hoping he saw the hand movement she was secretly making, wanting him to keep the conversation with Ophelia.

“I didn’t know I was hurting you, Ophelia. I’m sorry.”

“But you were. And you still are. Everything was perfectly right with us until this woman interfered. She can’t understand our connection. Look at what you are making me do, Leopold.

“Please Ophelia, don’t say that. Don’t do that.” Ophelia still had her back against the door and was still holding Jemma against her.

“Do what, huh?”

Someone knocks on the door. “Ophelia, my dear, are you there?”

“Yes, uncle, I am here. You can even come in if you wish,” a strange laugh coming out of her mouth.

Holden Radcliffe opens the door and see a broken mirror, a terrified Mr. Fitz and his niece holding Miss Simmons hostage with a shard and blood.

“Please, Ophelia, what are you doing?”

“Trying to get my happy ending.”

“It is looking more like a tragedy, Ophelia. My niece, please, whatever is the matter with you, no one deserves to be hurt.”

“And what about me, uncle?! I’m hurting too! The man I love seems to love another.”

“But does this have to end up this way? Think rationally, my dear. You will find someone more deserving of you. Don’t destroy your life.”

The next seconds felt like weeks, months, years until Ophelia let the shard drop on the floor, her hand still bleeding from breaking the mirror, and pushed Miss Simmons away from her. Uncle Radcliffe took her niece away from his office and only after he closed the door Fitz and Jemma stopped feeling paralysed and fell into each other’s arms, emotions running high, and both lost in an embrace of relief. Then Jemma put both her hands on his face and peppered it with kisses. Fitz merely closed his eyes and let a little smile appear on his face. Suddenly they were looking at each other, now even more closely than they had before during the waltz, searching for clues as to what should happen next. There was something electrical between them in the air.

“Your neck. Have my handkerchief to stop the bleeding.” Fitz said, as if he was breaking a spell, and she accepted it, her fingers touching his for barely a couple of seconds.

“Thank you.”

After such an event, naturally the ball ended sooner than expected and Mr. Fitz and Miss Simmons had to separate from each other and go to their respective homes. There was no doubt as to what would be the main subject of all conversations tomorrow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback is always welcome!


	11. The Aftermath

It would be an understatement to say that the night of Ophelia Radcliffe’s birthday ball was the main subject in many conversations in the city. And not just because of how magnificent the decorations were or how delicious the food was or how well-dressed the guests were. No, the main subject was what had happened in Holden Radcliffe’s office. His niece, Miss Radcliffe, had lost her mind, people said. Some of the stories regarding what happened in her uncle’s office were such that one would need many pages to tell them all. It was a scandal, many said. A story told by many mouths will always have something different in each one of them. But the truth is that Miss Ophelia Radcliffe, lost in her obsession with Mr. Fitz, almost killed Miss Jemma Simmons out of jealousy and possessiveness.

The last thing Jemma wanted was to leave the house and the doctor said that she needed rest and time to heal both physically and emotionally. She could not believe what had happened last night. It was like something out of a book!

The range of emotions she went through in such a short period of time had exhausted her and she needed time to process everything that had occurred. Her neck wound, though not large, needed to heal too. The fear as Ophelia held her against her, threatening her with that sharp shard of a broken mirror, the pain as Ophelia slowly made a cut on her neck, her concern for Fitz and how worried he looked, the overwhelming anxiety and fear the whole situation caused.

However, also the sheer relief she felt when she was free from Ophelia’s clutches, the joy she felt as she fell into Fitz’s embrace, both comforting each other and not wanting to let go, how she felt his smile as she kissed his face and how natural it felt to her. The seconds where hazel found blue and how tempting it felt to just let her lips find his and just know what would happen, what they would feel. But then, worried by her well-being, Fitz gave her his handkerchief to stop the bleeding on her neck.

Like good friends they were, Daisy and Bobbi went to visit her friend, hoping to get some truthful news. Sometimes Jemma preferred to stay alone, but right now she was actually relieved to have someone to talk about last night’s events. Perhaps it was in a way a catharsis, she said. There are as many ways of healing, depending on the person.

“That woman... I can’t believe she did that to you,” said Daisy. “And to Fitz. He’s even gone home.”

“He did?,” Jemma’s question just came out without barely thinking.

“Yes. To Glasgow,” slyly replied Daisy.

“Ah, once he told me he was from Glasgow. His mother lives there,” Jemma replied.

“From the little time I knew Miss Radcliffe, and not just because of what happened, but there was always some kind of strange intensity about her,” commented Bobbi. “Not to speak of the maids she fired because they never were up to her standards or because they didn’t do what she asked them to when they were precisely doing what she had told them to do. Something wasn’t right with that woman.”

“Yes, Fitz once told me a story that on his way for one of the painting sessions with Miss Radcliffe, he found a girl she had just dismissed for supposedly not doing her duties as she should,” added Daisy.

“Sometimes I still can't believe everything that happened and what could have happened,” sighed Jemma.

“It’s natural, you have just been on a roller-coaster of emotions,” Bobbi said as she put her hand on Jemma’s arm, trying to offer some comfort.

“But this situation actually gives us relevant information,” Daisy started. “So, Miss Radcliffe was obssessed with Mr. Fitz and then she threatens him by using you, not anyone else. So what is going on here? And what happened after you were free?”

“Obviously Mr. Fitz has feelings for Jemma,” — “don’t look at me like that, Jemma,” said Bobbi — “I haven’t noticed this just last night, you know.”

“So... what about you, Jemma? How do you feel towards Fitz?”

“I... I... I don’t know. I mean, I’m not sure.”

“Uh uh.”

“I’m being serious. There are things I never expected to happen and I am still processing them. I need time to think and to unravel all these feelings I have within me. And can you imagine my mother’s reaction to being associated with someone supposedly below my station?”

The three of them laughed.

When Jemma was alone, her thoughts always seemed to find Mr. Fitz. How was he? Was he visiting his mother? She believed so. For a long time Jemma thought she would become an old maid living with a half a dozen cats or something similar. But then she met Mr. Fitz (first time she didn’t know it was actually him but she counted that time) and something different, unknown and new started to blossom within her. Something soft, slowly finding its way to her heart, being pumped to the rest of her body and she didn’t know anymore where it began and where it ended. She wondered what this meant. Having never being truly in love before, it wasn’t easy to recognise it at first. She was already in the middle of it before she even knew it. Did Mr. Fitz feel the same for her? Could it be so? Her heart wanted to whisper “yes!” but she didn’t want to jump to conclusions too soon.

 

***

Fitz had had a long and tiring journey to Glasgow, his hometown and dear to him also because that is where his mother lived. When his mother opened the door of her humble abode and saw him at the door, she immediately threw herself into his arms saying and repeating “my boy” and Fitz hugged her too.

“Ma, perhaps it would be better if I actually entered the house.”

“Ah, but of course, it’s just that I wasn’t expecting your visit so you took me by surprise!”

“I just missed home and my mother, that’s all.”

“As much as I like hearing that, I’m certain those aren’t the only reasons that brought you here so unexpectedly. It must be something serious but I won’t force you to speak because I know you’ll do so when you’re ready. Do you want me to prepare a kettle of tea?”

“Yes ma, I’d like that, thank you.” He noticed the now discarded piece of clothing she had been working on, being the seamstress that she was.

Fitz was now sitting on the old couch trying to warm himself because even if it was still summer (but almost ending), Scottish nights were already getting chilly. Nevertheless, it felt good to be back home, surrounded by blankets, a fireplace and some photographs on the walls, bringing waves of nostalgia that filled him. He was still reeling from what had happened in Miss Radcliffe’s birthday ball.

Even if he believed that Ophelia might have some kind of strange fascination for him (confirmed by her kissing him), he only truly understood the level of her obssession when she threatened Miss Simmons’s life. The fear and utter panic he felt as he saw Miss Simmons being hurt by Miss Radcliffe... He wanted to do something but he wasn’t sure what because he didn’t want her to be hurt even more. He briefly saw her hand movement, telling him to keep talking to her, to gain more time so hopefully he would be able to stop her or someone else would appear and help them out of that scary situation. By sheer luck Mr. Radcliffe appeared and was able to calm her down enough to drop the shard of the broken mirror, blood dyeing both evening gowns, Ophelia’s and Jemma’s.

“Come to the table, Leopold, and we’ll drink some tea and eat biscuits,” Fitz’s mother bringing him back to reality.

Fitz got up from the couch and sat at the right side of his mother (as usual), steaming cups of tea already waiting for them. When Mrs. Fitz sat down on her chair, she covered her son’s left hand with her right and looked at him, caressing the back of his hand with her thumb.

“My dear boy, I am so very glad to have you here with me. You know how much I love to receive your letters, but those will never substitute your presence here.”

“I also love receiving your letters, ma, it’s like there’s a little bit of home in each one of them.”

Silence fell in the room for a while as both of them as they drank and ate.

“So I know you have been thriving in London as a painter.”

“Yes, I have. I’m very lucky.”

“Be glad, my son, because many try and try and still don’t have enough luck. We can do our best and still fail despite everything. Your father couldn’t see the beauty of your talent but luckily Mr. Coulson saw you and helped you evolve and get even better.”

“You know that newspaper, _The Shield_?”

“Yes, I do.

“Sometimes I work for it. You know, the cartoons. I’m telling you this because you’re my mum and I trust you won’t tell this to anyone.”

“Of course son, I won’t tell anymore. And I’m very proud of the man you have become.”

“I don’t know how to introduce this in our conversation so I’m just going to say it: I believe I’m—uh — have feelings for... I’m in love with someone.

“Would this person be the Miss Simmons you occasionally mentioned in your more recent letters?”

“Am I that transparent?”

“More like mother’s sixth sense,” Alice smiled. “So...?”

“So...what?”

“What are you going to do about that?”

“Sometimes I want to run away, sometimes I wish could get closer.”

“Hum. Has she even given you any hints of her own feelings for you?”

“I believe we are at least friends. Good friends who can have interesting conversations with each other even if we don’t agree on everything. Perhaps that’s also what makes those conversations compelling. Sometimes I feel that there might be something more... but she’s not...”

“Not always easy to read?”, Alice suggested.

“Yes...”

“Perhaps she might be going through some kind of inner struggle too?”

He told her all about the trip to Brighton and Miss Ophelia’s birthday party, and even about the Masquerade ball.

“So this is serious, my boy.”

“I believe so,” Fitz replied while scratching the back of his neck.

“I know your talent is and will take you far, but are you aware that even if she reciprocates your feelings, it might not be easy if her parents disapprove of you. A house with no money throws love out the window.”

“I know, ma. But as you’ve said, I’m thriving, and many people seem to genuinely like my paintings. And she once told me that she wanted to do something that gave her life a purpose, that she would make a little difference in the world. She can be a teacher, or anything she likes, really. She’s just like that,” he smiled.

“Alright, son. Then all you need to find is courage to give you the right words to say when you go back,” she smiled back at him, putting her right hand on the left side of his face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was thrilled to be able to include Fitz's mother in this story! Next chapter will be the "official" end of the story but there's still an epilogue that I'm on tenterhooks to share it with you so stay tuned!


	12. Maybe There Is

After the events of her niece’s birthday ball, Holden Radcliffe decided that Ophelia had to go through a change. Her niece was clearly not in good spirits and he did not want society to associate the adjectives ‘insane’ or ‘deranged’ with her, so the first step to take was to get her out of the city and make her go through therapy to treat her obsessive nature. Radcliffe thought that a different environment would help his niece’s recovery, so later she would go on a trip through Southern Europe to take in new sights, admire different views, recover from her episodes. They would travel to Portugal, then Spain, Italy and finally Greece and discover what these countries could offer them. Perhaps they could even cross the Atlantic and settle down in the United States.

Some weeks went by, and Jemma had no news about Mr. Fitz. He had also disappeared after the ill-fated birthday ball. Daisy and Mr. Coulson only told her that he had travelled north back to Scotland to visit his mother. _Glasgow_ , Jemma thought. That’s where his mother lives. Daisy and Bobbi were good company but sometimes she just wished to be on her own to try to unknot the confusion of her own feelings, especially those involving Mr. Fitz.

The truth is that his absence was tugging at her heartstrings. She wondered how he was faring and what would have happened if he had not been so gentleman-like and given her his handkerchief to absorb the blood coming out from her neck. Would they have kissed? Had he felt too some kind of magnetic force bringing them slowly closer just before he intervened? She insisted on washing his handkerchief instead of giving it to one of the maids. Since then she kept it in one of the drawers of her bedside table, often holding it and looking at it before she went to sleep.

After the traumatic events of the Ophelia’s ball, her parents (advised by Mrs. May) made her talk to Mr. Andrew Garner, a physician who studied diseases of the mind. In the beginning Jemma wanted to pretend that everything was alright with her, that she was in good spirits, but the doctor soon saw past that and made her reveal her thoughts and fears, bit by bit. It was normal if she felt affected by those events, anyone would, and she was not a weaker person for feeling fear or having nightmares; it was the brain’s way of purging the traumatic events she went through. Hearing this soothed her spirit and she tried not to feel guilty over what had occured, though it would be a gradual process, a process with its ups and downs, but slowly and gradually her condition would improve.

In one of those mornings where she woke up very early and decided to go out for a walk in one of her favourite gardens she saw him on the road. It had to be _him_ , wearing a newsie cap and riding a bicycle on his way to somewhere. He did not see her but now she knew that he was back. She felt her stomach giving a somersault and suddenly all she wanted was to run after him and call him, but she did not. She remained stuck to the same spot instead. She resumed her walk in the garden as if nothing had happened.

***

Fitz had left Glasgow after spending some weeks there to clear his head and decide what he would do with his feelings for Miss Simmons. When he came back he was even busier with work (both official and for _The Shield_ ), which was good, but it also left him with little time to do anything else. He had already declined two invitations but one day he received an invitation from Daisy to spend next Saturday’s afternoon at Mr. Coulson’s house “if he was still alive”. Fitz smiled at Daisy’s words. A few people they knew would be there, “including Miss Simmons and that should be reason enough not to miss it, dear friend.”

When next Saturday arrived, he thought of making up some sudden disease so he wouldn’t go to the tea party, but a small, spark of hope made him go. He would need to look presentable as his shirt full of paint wouldn’t exactly be the most adequate attire.

“Fitz! I’m so glad you could come to our little tea party!,” said Daisy,” it’s good to go outside from time to time, you know, and leave that little studio of yours.”

“Ha ha. Very funny, Daisy. Should I ask you how things are going with Captain Triplett?”

Daisy went silent, blushing slightly.

“Wow, it worked!”

Now it was Hunter who was entering the house to greet him, “It’s good to see you again, Fitz”.

“Likewise, Hunter.”

“Let us go outside to the garden, besides us there’s Bobbi, Mr. Coulson, Mrs. May, even Mr. Mackenzie too. Sadly Captain Triplett couldn’t join us this time, to Daisy’s dismay.

“Hey!”

“Alright, alright, I won’t say anything else. But I can finally introduce you to Miss Elena Rodriguez.”

“Good afternoon, Miss Rodriguez. How do you do?,” he asked.

“Hello Mr. Fitz. I’m quite well, thank you,” she replied with a slight accent. Suddenly they heard Miss Rodriguez being called by Mr. Mackenzie, “excuse me, looks like I’m needed somewhere else.”

“Tell no one,” said Daisy, “but I have every reason to believe that we might have a marriage proposal soon.”

“Mr. Mackenzie and Miss Rodriguez?” Fitz asked.

“Exactly.”

It was actually unexpectedly pleasant outside in the garden and it would have been positively criminal not to take advantage from such weather. There were some tables with refreshments and food and chairs if one preferred to sit down. Fitz heard the sound of some conversations but there was a conversation he needed to have, despite being one he feared and with someone who was out of sight at the moment.

But then there she was. She had been in the garden, hidden by the trees, the bushes and the flowers. The image was so picturesque that felt sorry he did not have his tools to capture that moment. He could feel his heart beating faster, his uncomfortably clammy hands, but could not keep putting off this conversation. He had to take this out of his chest for once and for all. It took him a few seconds before he went to meet her in the garden.

***

She felt his presence as he walked towards her partially secluded spot in the garden.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Fitz.”

“Good afternoon, Miss Simmons.”

An awkward silence fell between them, memories of the very last time they had truly seen each other still in their minds. So close to something they had been but now... Weeks had passed since then. The air seemed full of many unsaid things, the tension so strong that threatened to break them apart. Somehow it felt even worse than if they were complete strangers. But someone would have to start the conversation.

“Well, I thought we had something to talk about but now it feels like there’s a void between us.”

“Maybe there is something to talk about,” she says, grabbing his hand, hoping he would stay.

He does.

He feels her cold hand grabbing his and then he sees her teary eyes.

“The truth is, I have too many things to say, too many things to tell you.”

“I have many things to say as well. Maybe we can start by saying one at a time?,” Fitz said, putting his free hand on top of hers.

“I will try.” She opens her small bag with both hands and takes a handkerchief out of it. _His_ handkerchief.

“Several weeks ago you gave this to me and now I can finally to return it to its owner.” He was about to tell her she could keep the handkerchief, but then he thought he would accept it back, as a token of affection and now smelling of lavender, of _her_.

“Thank you for taking good care of my handkerchief, Miss Simmons. I am only sorry that it was necessary in such a sad incident.”

“No need to fret over that, Mr. Fitz. The most important thing is that everything is alright.

A few seconds of silence passed before Jemma spoke again.

“Do you know who Charles Martin is?”

“It’s one of the writers for _The Shield_ , isn’t it? Not too long ago I made a cartoon for a very thoughtful and eloquent article on children and education.” As he kept talking, she became shier and her smile simultaneously bigger.

“Wait, you _are_ Charles Martin?!”

“Indeed I am. Just as _you_ are James Knight.”

“I’m a fool! How come I did not see this sooner? You were there at the headquarters when Peggy Carter gave me your article for inspiration for the cartoon!”

“Yes, but I could not reveal my identity for several reasons and Peggy Carter accepted them.”

“Both your article and my cartoon combined so well. It’s like we were a team without even knowing it. Fitz and Simmons!,” making a gesture with his free hand and then coming back to being on top of hers.

“It looks more like something out of a detective novel but clearly we seem to be twice as better together,” she said but couldn’t help but smiling.

This was the kind of statement that could carry many meanings and all of a sudden the atmosphere seemed to have become heavier once more.

“What is the matter, Miss Simmons?”

“Well... I have done a lot of thinking since that ball from weeks ago... And I need you to know you have been missed. No, that should not be said passively. I have missed you and our conversations. All of them. Even when we disagreed. Even when we did not know who we where. You are quite possibly one of the best people I’ve ever met and that you have a kind soul and a caring heart and—

“Jemma,” suddenly Fitz had his hands framing her face, got closer to her and his lips touched hers for the first time. It was tentative, soft and sweet.

“Say it again.”

“Jemma. Jemma. Jemma,” he whispered it in her ear, “I’ll say it as many times as you would like to hear it.”

One of his hands was now at her waist and other on the back of her neck, holding her against him, yearning for more and kissing her again.

“You are also sometimes the most infuriating conversationalist, and you always want to be right—“

“Funny thing, I could say the same from you, Miss Simmons—“

Now it was Jemma who pulled him to her, the hints of passion in her lips as she moved them against his and he matched her moves, sighing as the hand she had on the back of his head slid behind his ear, tracing his scruff with her fingers. They paused briefly to catch their breath but Fitz wanted to find her lips again as she smiled, meeting him once more.

Now Fitz kissed not only her lips, but he left a trail of kisses, tracing a path from the corner of her mouth to her cheek and her jaw and when he found her neck he had discovered a soft spot, and the more he kissed it, the more access to it she gave him, her way of saying “more, more”, her eyes closed. He stopped when he saw the small scar that Ophelia had left on her neck when she cut her.

She opened her eyes.

“Can I touch your scar?”

She nodded, suddenly shy. His fingers lightly touched her scar, and she shivered, the skin sensitive to his touch.

“Are you okay?”

“Yes.”

“I’m so sorry you had to go through that.”

“It is okay, we are here now and that is what matters.”

His lips touched her scar in an apology for what had happened and with her eyes closed again, she smiled.

“I don’t know what I made to be this happy, but I’m not letting it go away.”

“Hum, I’m not sure if I feel the same way” slyly replied Fitz.

“Oh, Fitz!,” Jemma reproaching him but not enough to stop a smile from appearing on her face.

“I’m earnestly yours, Jemma. Truly. I mean it.”

“Me too.”

“Can you imagine when we tell this to our parents?”

“My mother will surely like you,” Fitz said.

“Imagine my family! Imagine my mother’s face when I tell her about us!” both of them laughed.

“So... what now?,” asked Fitz, holding Jemma’s hand.

“Now we go back and—“ Jemma said.

Fitz interrupted, “—we will prepare ourselves for the many “I told you so” we are about to hear but perhaps we can stay here a little longer...”

“Go on,” Jemma had a smirk on her face.

“And we might take advantage of this secluded corner of the garden—“

Whatever Fitz was going to say next was pleasantly interrupted by Jemma’s lips on his.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here we are at chapter 12, the last chapter of the main story. 
> 
> But fret not!, because chapter 13 will be a epilogue and I'll advise you to check it out.


	13. Epilogue

**_Two years later_ **

Jemma was preparing herself for one of the most important days of her life — the release of her first novel under her own name called _Maveth_. The idea became a draft and then a novel. Since she told Fitz about it, he always supported her plan. If H.G. Wells was writing speculative fiction, why couldn’t Jemma Simmons do the same? She also drew strength from women writers such as Margaret Cavendish, Duchess of Newcastle-upon-Tyne who wrote the utopian _The Blazing World_ , a 17th century forerunner of speculative fiction.

This was the tale of a woman, Enid, who found herself stuck in another planet though she knew not why. One day, in one of her daily walks in the woods, she curiously touched a large black stone and she was transported to a different universe where everything was always dark blue, always night, always lonely. Enid called the planet Maveth, meaning “death” in Hebrew. She ached for her home but that rock had taken her to another planet and she knew no way out of it so she could go back to the people she loved, including her bethrothed, Artus. So this is the story of a woman trying to find a way back home and a man who will not rest until he can bring back his beloved to their planet.

Jemma had worked hard on that story, stretching the limits of her imagination and contemplating the world of ideas in her mind, choosing the ones that she felt that fit better her story. Searching for a second pair of eyes, a slightly nervous Jemma put her story in Fitz’s hands, who was soon brimming with ideas of illustrations for several scenes. Working twice as better together, Fitzsimmons were working as if it had always been destined to happen, not only through marriage but also in their work. The scenes in _Maveth_ would have to be in different shades of blue of course to contrast with the illustrations of scenes in our planet; earth tones for the walk in the woods; greys for sadness and a burst of colours saved for the end of the story.

Jemma wouldn’t stop pacing the room from one side to another, mumbling to herself.

“I know it is easier than done, but fret not, Jemma. Everything will be alright. Your story is a wonderful tale — and I’m not saying this merely as your husband — and I’m sure people will enjoy it.”

“I know, Fitz, but I cannot help it but worry. Ugh. It is the first time I’m actually publishing under my real name and it is a novel and you know how easy it is for people to judge women when they write than when men write. When a woman writes, it is also herself that is judged.”

“I know, Jemma, but I have complete confidence in you,” Fitz reassuring his wife while holding and caressing her hand. “My love, you have a talent with words and you deserve people who will read your stories. His eyes searched hers, and she found them, seconds went by, and unspoken words exchanged between them which meant everything.

“And not everyone there at the event will be a stranger, there’s your cousin Hunter and Bobbi, there’s Captain Triplett and his new wife Daisy, even Mr. Coulson and Mrs. May, not to speak of Mr. Mackenzie and his fiancée Miss Rodriguez.”

“Yes, I know. Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For reminding me of good things.”

“That is what couples do, isn’t it? Support each other and make our world a little better.”

Jemma had now tears in her eyes, trying hard not to let them fall down.

“Leopold James Fitz, I do not know what I did to deserve you in my life but I’m glad I have you.”

“Do not mock me, Jemma. It is me who doesn’t know what I did to deserve you.”

“Are we seriously going to have an argument about who deserves the other the most?”

“Looks like it. One I will always be looking forward to having it with you,” his smile teasing his wife a little.

Jemma and Fitz chuckled together.

Jemma was about to leave the room when she returned, framed her husband’s face and kissed it, whispering in his ear, “Wear the blue coat when we go out.”

“And why should I do such thing?,”

“It brings out your lovely blue eyes... and it would combine perfectly with my light blue gown.”

“Your wish is my command, my lady,” he teased.

\---

In the _Cygnus_ bookshop the atmosphere was already filled with whispered conversations, people waiting for Jemma Fitz-Simmons, who had first written a series of articles for _The Shield_ under a pseudonym and now releasing a novel under her real name. Contrary to what had been said, the novel published would not be a romance full of purple prose, but some more avant-garde, something in the tradition of the speculative novel.

Hunter and a clearly pregnant Bobbi were now engaged in a conversation with the newlywed Captain Triplett and Mrs Triplett, the old Miss Daisy Johnson.

“I have no fear of boats. Not everyone wants to stay in calm waters their entire life,” commented Mrs. Triplett.

“And that is my Daisy, hidden behind such a delicate name but ready to defeat all the storms ahead of her,” smiled a visibly happy Captain Triplett.

“Do you know what happened to Miss Radcliffe? I haven’t heard about her in quite a while...” curiosity always getting the best of Daisy.

“Oh, Miss Ophelia Radcliffe?” asked back Bobbi. “She moved to the United States with her uncle, isn’t it, Lance?,” Bobbi lightly elbowing a distracted Hunter.

“Huh? Oh yes, that’s the last I’ve heard of her uncle.”

“Indeed?” an expression of surprise on Daisy’s features.

“From what we know,” Bobbi said, “after her Mediterranean trip, Miss Radcliffe seemed to have put all thoughts of Mr. Fitz behind her — and then craved a new society. Mr Radcliffe and his niece seem to have settled in the United States for the time being.”

\---

 

“Are we about to enter the book shop by the back door?,” asked Fitz.

“Why, Fitz, would you prefer it otherwise?

“Not really,” scratching the back of his neck, “that way I can still do this without anyone seeing,” and he pulled her towards him and against the somewhat hidden brickwall to kiss her once more, his lips finding hers, and every time the thirst had no end.

“You will never get tired of doing that, will you?,” asked Jemma.

“Not really,” deadpanned Fitz.

“Good. How scandalous we are!

“There was no one looking so it doesn’t count.”

“We need to go in,” Fitz holding Jemma’s hand wherever she took him.

\---

 

“Curious how so many Americans ladies are moving here while Miss Radcliffe makes the same trip but in reverse,” Hunter commented.

“She’ll have a lot to be busy with in the American society, of that I can be certain. Hopefully no one will offer her _The House of Mirth_ by our Edith Wharton to read though,” Bobbi said.

“And why not?”

“A well-born but impoverished young woman in New York high society who isn’t married yet despite her age and the novel depicts her downfall and—

“Were you speaking about _House of Mirth_?, questioned Jemma, having just arrived with her husband for the release of her novel, and with her cheeks slightly flushed.

“Of course Jemma Simm—ahem—Fitz-Simmons would know about such novel,” smiled Bobbi.

“It’s a harsh depiction of the downward spiral of a woman because of the cruel society she lives in just because she’s past the ideal age to find a husband,” commented Jemma. “By the way, how have you and the child been doing, Bobbi?”

“This child is getting stronger everyday. Like her mother, of course,” Bobbi threw a smirk at her husband.

“Speaking of husband, where is yours, Mrs. Fitz-Simmons?,” teased Captain Triplett.

“He’s over there speaking to Mr. Coulson.”

“And how have you been, Captain Triplett and Mrs. Triplett?,” asked Jemma.

“As you can see, everything is going quite well,” replied Daisy and the Captain smiled.

“But how have you come in so smoothly?,” Cousin Hunter asked.

“The bookshop has a back door, you see, and Fitz and I took advantage of it.”

The in the meantime the last details were being prepared for the presentation of _Maveth_ and after an introduction by the publisher of the author and the illustrator, it was now the writer’s turn to speak and Jemma cleared her throat before beginning:

“First of all, I am very happy to be here, in a bookshop I love dearly and accompanied by people who love and care for me. Publishing _Maveth_ is a two-fold joy, the act of publishing something different and the fact that it was written by a woman. There are many women wanting their voices to be heard and I do not doubt that they will become stronger. Like _my_ Enid struggles, many women fight and hopefully what I am doing can be seen as a small step towards women’s emancipation, just one more drop in the ocean” Jemma looked at Fitz, on her right side, and he smiled at her. Jemma Fitz-Simmons did not spare words when everyone knows how the country is filled with women fighting for their rights, to gain more equality.

This story is also enriched by Leopold Fitz-Simmons’s art,” as Jemma said this, her right hand found Fitz’s left one,“ who happens to be my husband.” The people in the bookshop collectively laughed while seeing Fitz’s cheeks redden a little. “Mr. Fitz’s art embellishes this novel, the illustrations with right colours and the right moods, providing my novel with most adequate atmosphere as the reader keeps on turning the pages. _Maveth_ is a story of resilience, of people fighting not to lose their hope, of Enid and Artus wanting to find each other again and going back home.”

Having finished her speech, the crowd in the bookshop applauded Jemma and Fitz and they smiled, ready to face whatever came to challenge them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It took some time but here it is the very last chapter of this story! I hope you guys have enjoyed it.


End file.
